Making the Honor Roll
by Mandelene
Summary: Arthur, a teacher, and Francis, a police officer with a murky past, are the parents of charismatic twins. Now they must confront the trials and tests assigned to them each day, but what if they don't have all the answers? Some lessons are harder to learn than others, and not everyone is cut out for the honor roll.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Here I am again with a new story! I'm trying something a little different, so let me know what you think. Please leave a review if you'd like to see more. It'd be greatly appreciated. ;)

* * *

" _A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;_

 _How could I answer the child?...I do not know what it is any more than he." ~Walt Whitman_

* * *

Autumn is man's darkest season. What it takes away, it never gives back.

Each day, not one minute past seven, Arthur erupted out the front door, a stack of papers plastered to one hand and a leather briefcase attached to the other.

Today, as always, there was a cigarette dangling between his clenched teeth, blasting smoke into the frosty air while he struggled to unlock the car door.

"Hurry along, boys. We've no time to waste," he proclaimed, herding the twins into their seats like cattle. "Did you both finish Mr. Beilschmidt's homework, last night?"

Francis watched them from the doorway of the house, dressed in a comically fluffy bathrobe and sandals. There was a disheveled air about him—an exhausted temperament that turned his under-eyes a grotesque purple.

"Uh-huh!" Alfred placated Arthur before waving his hand frantically to get Francis' attention. "Bye, Papa! I love you!"

"Love you!" Matthew parroted from beside him, flashing a partially toothless smile.

"Have a good day at school, _mes lapins_! That goes for you as well, Arthur."

"Damned frog…" the Englishman snarled at once, slipping into the driver's seat with a pronounced frown. He adjusted the rearview mirror and gave the boys a pointed look. "Have we put our seatbelts on?"

Not expecting a uniform response, Arthur checked that the two were buckled up before pulling out of the driveway.

"Daddy, why did Papa sleep on the couch last night?" Matthew chimed when they had stopped at a red light, chewing on his nails.

"Don't put your fingers in your mouth, poppet."

"But why?"

"It spreads germs."

"No, why did Papa sleep downstairs?"

"Because Papa had to do some paperwork and didn't want to wake anyone up," Arthur lied. He took a long drag of his cigarette and flicked away the excess ash on the window. "You know Papa has been very busy lately."

That much was true, at least.

"He's home all day," Alfred argued, kicking out his feet. He had a curious look in his eyes—as though he knew more than he was letting on. "He doesn't even go to work anymore."

"Yes, but he's looking for new work. It's not as easy as it sounds."

Matthew shrugged his shoulders and played with the zipper on his lunchbox. "I like it better when he's home."

They were closer than ever before, Matthew and Francis, practically inseparable, and Arthur couldn't help but feel a sting of jealousy in his chest, knowing the boy clearly favored one parent over the other. He'd even started picking up on some French, and spoke it whenever possible to flaunt his spectacular progress. His favorite phrase was often " _J'en mettrais ma main au feu!_ " (I'd put my hand on fire) or the English equivalent of "I'd bet my life on it!"

He snuck it into every day conversation as many times as possible, saying things like "I'm sure Papa made a good dinner today. _J'en mettrais ma main au feu!_ "

Arthur could only hope this fascination of his would be quelled over time. He didn't need a second frog hopping about—one was already more than he could manage.

The fizzling harmony of children's playful cries greeted them as they neared the school building, and Arthur deposited the car in the teacher's parking lot before snuffing out his cigarette. "Go and stand with the rest of the class, boys. I'll see you in a few minutes."

They had been through this routine many times, and thus, the boys exchanged a brief hug with the man and jogged toward the rest of their classmates without complaint, blending into the crowd and out of sight.

Just another day.

Arthur grabbed his briefcase and locked the car before heading for his designated classroom, mentally preparing himself to tackle the morning. If he hurried, he could still make himself a cup of tea in the lounge. He would need the extra boost of caffeine to function.

Unfortunately, Gilbert Beilschmidt caught him at the most inopportune moment.

"Morning, Arthur. How are the rugrats doing?" he asked, quite casual as he skimmed over his lesson plan. "Word on the block says mean ol' Mr. Kirkland assigned a project that's due today."

"We're making maps."

"Ah, that's why I caught Alfred cutting out templates of continents in my class yesterday. He dropped Europe on the floor."

Arthur sighed and readied his apologies. "He told me he'd started working on it last week. I'll have a talk with him."

"It's all right. I thought it was funny," Gilbert consoled, returning to his own classroom, which was across the hall from Arthur's. "If only we could get him to do his math homework. I've got a few tactics I want to try out on the kids. I'll let you know how they work out."

"Please do."

"Well, buh-bye for now."

"Likewise."

Gilbert was generally well-liked by his students, mostly due to his lax teaching style. He hardly dished out assignments, refusing to hand out what he termed "busy-work" when the children could be spending time outside instead. Nonetheless, he did assign a weekly worksheet of math problems to assess his students' progress. His science class, on the other hand, normally remained a homework-free zone and only required an occasional experiment to be conducted at home.

The first bell rang shortly after their discussion, and Arthur braced himself for the stampede of third graders that swarmed the classroom. They plopped into their desks and continued chatting, excited and full of energy. He briefly imagined himself in their shoes, enamored by the world with so much left to see and learn.

"I hope everyone had a good weekend," Arthur began, raising his voice over the mesh of conversations. And, like magic, the students immediately quieted down, fearing a scolding. "I hear you've all worked very hard on putting together your maps. I'd like for everyone to form a group of three or four and share what they learned with each other. I'll be coming around the room to see your projects, and we'll be hanging them up around the classroom later. "

The students began to merge, and the chatting increased once more. Arthur made sure everyone was incorporated in a group, glowering when he noticed something a tad troubling.

"Matthew," he called out, motioning for the boy to step forward. "I don't want you working with Alfred today. Why don't you work with another group instead?"

He had to get the child out of his comfort zone every once in a while, even though it pained him to do so.

"Okay," Matthew appeased, though he clearly wasn't thrilled with the arrangement. He rarely mingled with anyone other than his brother, and it showed.

Someday, he'd understand, or so Arthur hoped.

The intercom at the head of the room crackled with life, silencing the room once more.

" _Mr. Kirkland, you're wanted in the principal's office this afternoon."_

A flood of giggles and snickers blanketed the class, followed by a chorus of "oooohs".

Arthur bit back a smile. It wasn't a proper Monday if his lesson wasn't being interrupted at least once. "All right, everyone. Let's get back to work."

What had he done now?

* * *

"Arthur, I'm sorry for calling you in abruptly. I promise I'll let you get back to your lunch in a moment. There were just some… concerns that we needed to address."

Mr. Yao was an elderly gentleman, but you wouldn't be able to tell at first glance. He had a youthful spirit accented by a statuesque posture and wiry appearance. Furthermore, he was always one to make you feel welcome, until you were at odds with him. Then, you were on your own.

"It's not a problem."

"Hmm, it is my understanding that you've recently started integrating geography into your lessons, correct?"

"Yes, I have."

"You see, Arthur, geography is not included in the course curriculum for our third grade social studies class. In fact, your recent assignment raised some eyebrows. I've had some phone calls from parents who are worried that their children aren't being fully prepared for the state test at the end of the term."

Arthur stiffened his shoulders and smoothed out his dress shirt. He had anticipated this issue. "I can assure you that my class will be more than ready for the state exam. I've been covering all of the material in the mandated curriculum, but I have added a few additional topics of my own to facilitate the students' comprehension of the subject."

"I know you're a well-educated and capable teacher, Arthur. However, you still have to teach the curriculum in the manner in which it is outlined. I don't see how geography is beneficial to the students."

Clearing his throat, Arthur folded his hands in his lap and prepared his explanation. "Mr. Yao, my job is to teach English Language Arts and Social Studies. I find these classes to be vital to a young student's development. As such, how will these children understand colonial America if they can't identify the states on a map? How are they going to grasp the concept of European imperialism and parliamentary government if they don't know what London is, where it's located, and the type of culture it has? How are they supposed to feel any compassion for others if they can't imagine a world outside of their own city? We live in a globalized era, and you cannot expect these students to be prepared for real life problems if they can't read a map or empathize with the geopolitical problems of others."

He could see the dissent in Yao's eyes. The elder man was sharpening his knives, but two could play this game.

"I would even go as far as to argue that geography is not only beneficial to students, it's essential. They will never understand nationalism, culture, and the struggles of other societies without the basic knowledge of geography. I asked my students to paste the continents on construction paper and to label a few countries of their choice. That hardly seems like an extravagant assignment."

Yao blinked at him as though he had sprouted a second head, but otherwise kept his composure. "Very well, Arthur. If the student's assessment grades begin to suffer, there will have to be an intervention."

"That won't be necessary. My students are performing well above the standards set by the curriculum."

Yao stood from his desk and shook Arthur's hand firmly—an unspoken threat. "Thank you for your time."

"No—thank _you_ ," Arthur replied, immensely polite and professional.

Let the races begin.

* * *

"Mathieu, stop picking at your peas—I know you don't like them, but you need your vitamins. And Alfred, you have mashed potatoes on your face…again," Francis muttered, clicking his tongue before swiping his thumb across Alfred's cheek. "If you would slow down your eating, you wouldn't make such a mess."

Alfred merely stuffed a forkful of meat into his mouth, barely bothering to chew it. "I'm not making a mess!"

"Tch. Where is your father? His dinner is going to be cold, and I refuse to reheat it."

"He's right here," Arthur announced as he swept into the kitchen, creases of distress in his forehead. He smelled of cigarette smoke and peppermint gum. "Francis, we need to talk."

"Can't it wait until after dinner?"

"Fine."

Arthur planted kisses on each of the boy's foreheads and almost pecked Francis's cheek out of habit, but something stopped him short. Instead, he settled himself down in a chair at the table and tried to force-feed Matthew some vegetables. "Open up, love. They're good for you."

"But they taste bad!" the boy whimpered and gritted his teeth.

Maybe he'd have more success with a guilt-trip. "Papa worked very hard to make this dinner, and we don't want it to go to waste, do we?"

"No."

Arthur turned his attention to his own meal. "Then, I expect you to eat what's on your plate, lad."

They'd almost had an incident-free dinner, but Alfred had a thirst for telling stories, and so, the tale of the day made its presence known. "Papa! Daddy went to the principal's office today!"

Francis quirked an eyebrow, interest piqued. "Did he now?"

"Tell him what happened, Dad!"

"Yes, please do tell us," Francis encouraged, petting Alfred's head fondly. He could always count on his little informer to spill secrets. "Did you get detention?"

Arthur wiped at his mouth with a napkin and let out a bark of laughter. "But of course. It seems I've broken a few school policies."

A heavy silence followed, almost palpable. Francis had a stern look in his eyes.

"Boys, I'm sure Daddy's tired, so why don't we talk about this another time? Go and get ready for bed."

"Aww! But I wanna hear what happened!" Alfred pouted as Matthew took the opportunity to run away from his leftover vegetables.

"Later," Francis assured.

Realizing this was a futile fight, Alfred trailed after Matthew and continued his banter with him instead as they trudged upstairs. When both adults were sure that the children were out of earshot, Francis began clearing the table and sparked another conversation.

"The principal, hmm?" he said, turning on the faucet. "You know we can't afford for you to get into any trouble at work right now."

Arthur offered a hand in cleaning the dishes, gently pushing Francis out of the way. "Oh, don't worry about that. It was some silly stuff regarding the curriculum, but I have it under control."

"I hope so."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do, but—"

"But nothing," Arthur finished. "Francis, I wanted to—to apologize for how cross I was with you yesterday. You losing your job has put us both under a great deal of stress, and I let it get to my head. I shouldn't have said the things I did… I didn't mean any of it. I've been impatient, is all."

"I know. What's important is that it's in the past. Let's make the best of this horrible situation. We're managing for now, yes?"

Arthur nodded and pressed a feather-light kiss onto Francis's temple to ease both of their rampant thoughts. "I'm only worried about the boys. How long will we be able to live off of one paycheck? A measly paycheck, nonetheless."

He remembered when they'd first adopted the twins. They were barely a year old, and financial worries had always been in the forefront of their minds as new parents.

"We have some savings," Francis reminded, stowing away the silverware. "I submitted my résumé to a number of places. I'm waiting to hear back from them."

"Why don't you talk to Antonio? He works at the station uptown, right? Maybe he could help you find a position. Would the officers have to be notified about—?"

"No, no, no. It looks as though I resigned to 'spend time with family'. It shouldn't keep me from getting hired."

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief and rested his head against the other's chest. "Good."

"I'm sorry for putting us in this situation."

"It wasn't your fault," he hissed, tightening a hand around Francis's forearm. "I'm going to step outside for a moment. We'll put the boys to sleep and turn in early."

'Stepping outside' was Arthur's key phrase for 'I need to go out and smoke a cigarette before I lose my sanity.' Francis despised the putrid habit, but Arthur had been a smoker since they'd first met, and he'd accepted him for the flaw. He was at least grateful that the man never smoked inside the house, but he'd been 'stepping out' more and more frequently as of late, going through nearly a pack a day.

Of course, he'd fast for the six hours when he was teaching, but then his addiction would be back in full swing, nipping at him relentlessly.

"Okay," Francis conceded, deciding that he'd bring up the issue on another evening. They had enough to think about for now. "Don't take too long out there."

"Or what? I'll get another round of detention?"

Francis grinned and rubbed his nose against Arthur's, causing the other to flush with irritation. The Englishman was never one to be overly affectionate unless his tenderness was being directed at the children. "I used to have a soft spot for bad boys."

"You don't say?"

"There was something alluring about them—a kind of _je ne sais quoi_."

"Well, in that case, I suppose I must not be your type. I'm far too good for you," Arthur teased, brushing off the advances with a mocking air. Francis was going to have to try harder than that. A little creativity now and then wouldn't hurt.

And as Arthur crept out the front door, Francis jokingly wondered what the other man valued more—love or cigarettes.

Sometimes, it was hard to tell.

* * *

He couldn't stop his dreams from running wild.

Nothing compared to staying up late with Mattie when Papa and Daddy thought they were asleep. They'd read comics, tell scary stories, and whisper through the darkness until lethargy finally came upon them, lulling them to rest.

The window was cracked open just an inch, letting in a cool gust of wind as they huddled together in Mattie's bed, trying not to make too much noise. Their toes were curled into the bedcovers, warm and cozy as their shoulders pressed against one another.

"Guess what, Matt? I'm gonna be the fastest runner in the world! Nobody will ever be able to catch up to me in a million-bajillion years," Alfred forewarned his brother. "I'll beat the world record. You'll see!"

Matthew slid further underneath the covers until only his eyes and hair were visible. "You did win your last race, but if you wanna be the best in the world, you havta win the Olympics."

"Win the Olympics?"

"Yeah, you get a medal and then everyone knows you're _really_ the best."

"Well, everyone's gonna know about me," Alfred asserted, picking the lint off of his striped pajama top. He could already hear the chorus of cheers thrumming in his mind, shouting his name. He was going to be the best of the best. He wanted it more than that time he'd begged for the new 'Robot Apocalypse' game.

He pleaded and pressed Daddy to take him to the park every weekend, and then he'd just _run_. Run until the people behind him didn't matter anymore. Run until the wind cut through his hair and sweat dribbled down his back. In those moments, he was as close to paradise as humanly possible.

"I have another race tomorrow."

"I won't be there because I'm going to the dentist with Papa… Sorry."

"It's okay, Daddy's gonna record it. Are ya getting all of your teeth ripped out?" Alfred teased, narrowly avoiding the pillow that Matthew launched at his face.

"Shut up!"

"Just kidding!"

"Hey, Mattie?"

"What?"

"Do you think it'll make Daddy and Papa happy if I win my race tomorrow?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"They've just been really sad lately. Do you think it's something we did?"

Matthew pursed his lips in thought and shook his head. Now that his brother brought it up, he had noticed a change of mood in the house. "No. Did you make them angry?"

"Not this week," Alfred promised. "I heard that when parents are sad all the time, they can get a divorce."

"Maybe other parents, but not our parents."

Feeling a bout of drowsiness come over him, Alfred lowered his head to the pillows and nodded, hoping Matthew was right. "G'night, Matt. The bedbugs are gonna bite you."

"If they bite me, they'll probably bite you too."

Alfred popped his eyes open once more and grinned widely at his twin. "No, they can't handle my blood—it's too awesome for them to drink. It's like poison!"

He was too invincible for his own good, and Matthew only prayed that Alfred wouldn't poison himself by accident.

* * *

"I'll be at the top of the bleachers, okay? Take a deep breath and try your best."

"I know, Dad."

"Good luck, love."

He found his place on the track and scrunched the soles of his shoes against the synthetic surface, testing the resistance. He squeezed in a few leg stretches and then it was show time. He bent one knee and brushed a hand over the ground, waiting for the whistle. Every second was agony, and his heart was already slamming against his ribs.

"Ready… Set…"

The shriek of the whistle propelled his legs forward, sending him barreling down the track with all of his might. His body was no longer his own, and he sprinted forward in a daze, lost in the moment. He was ahead. He was going to win!

The colors around him meshed into one glob and his nostrils flared as he sucked in giant gulps of air. Just a few more yards.

And suddenly, a figure zoomed ahead of him and snagged his attention. He tried to catch up and closed some of the distance between them, but he fell a few feet short of the finish line and arrived second.

Calves stiff and aching, he barely noticed as a silver medal coiled around his neck.

"Alfred!"

He sluggishly turned his head to the side and met his father's eyes, chest still heaving.

"I'm so proud of you."

Tears sprung into his eyes, but he quickly willed them away. "I lost," he murmured. Every part of his skeleton screamed at him for failing.

"No, you didn't. You came in second. That's quite an accomplishment—it was a fierce competition," Daddy told him, stroking his hair back. "Congratulations!"

Alfred frowned and said once more, " _I lost_."

A warm hand rose to touch his cheek, and he suffered through a barely suppressed sob. He let everyone down. How was he supposed to make Daddy and Papa happy now?

"You were wonderful because you tried your hardest," Dad whispered, kissing his head. "No one gets first place in all of their races."

Those words only served to make him feel worse, and the tears he'd been hiding finally leaked onto his face.

Daddy made a disapproving noise and scooped him close with strong arms. Alfred wished he'd never let him go. They could just stay like this forever, comfortable in each other's embrace.

"Let's go home."

"Did I make you sad?" Alfred asked as he swiped at his puffy eyes.

"Of course not. I love watching you race, you know that," Daddy said once they were in the car, a gentle smile on his lips. "I love you even when you don't get first place."

"So you aren't going to get a divorce?"

Bug eyed and flustered, Daddy twisted himself around in the driver's seat to look at him. The man thought he'd heard it all after working with children for many years, but it seemed they still had the ability to leave him dumbfounded. "Where in the world did you get that idea?"

"You were yelling at Papa the other day and—"

"Oh, Alfred," Daddy sighed, pulling a cigarette out of its packet. His lighter gave off a sharp click and he rolled down the window before taking a drag. "Sometimes adults fight, but that doesn't mean they stop caring for one another. Fighting is part of life, and a little fighting is healthy. You get into arguments with Matthew almost daily, don't you?"

"Yeah…"

"As you get older, you'll see how life can hand us a basket of troubles, but if you find someone that loves you, you won't have to carry the basket alone."

Not really understanding what Dad was getting at, Alfred went back to sulking. Adults were confusing, and they always made everything so unnecessarily complicated.

"Just keep your chin up, lad. You've nothing to be ashamed of."

Alfred huffed, blowing a piece of hair out of his eyes.

That was another thing about adults, they strolled around like they knew everything there was to know.

Poison, poison, poison. They all had it coming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for the support this story has received thus far! I'm hoping to update on a weekly basis throughout the summer, but we'll see how that pairs with my poor work ethic. Please enjoy the chapter and leave a review! It'll keep me typing. ;)

* * *

Barked commands crashed against his ears as the night swallowed him whole.

 _Do your goddamned job._

He plundered through a wasteland of dead thoughts and dreams. Pain rained from the sky, and he would've done anything to stop it—to have a last fleeting snippet of serenity. He could've stopped it. He _had_ stopped it.

"Francis."

 _Resist. Please, resist._

" _Let me… Take him home_."

"Hey, everything's all right, my frog."

" _He's just a child_."

"Hush now."

He bolted upright, flinging his arms forward as if to catch something. Lithe fingers inched up his skin and came to rest on his cheek, easing his hammering heart. The thermostat was set too high—too hot.

"A nightmare?" Arthur asked while continuing to pet his cheek. There was an underlying taunt in his tone, and Francis ignored the flush crawling up his face from humiliation. Normally, the twins were the ones in need of such comforting.

He cleared his throat and flipped over onto his side, doing his best to pretend nothing had happened. "I'm fine."

"Don't be a child. Tell me what's been on your mind. Communication is key to any relationship, remember?" Arthur badgered him, sowing fond touches along his back. "You've been keeping things to yourself lately. It's not like you. You were granted the gift of gab, so you may as well put it to good use."

Francis yanked the sheets closer to his side of the bed and let his eyes slip to a close. "I told you I'm not ready to discuss it."

"This is about work again? I told you that you mustn't bother yourself with such rubbish. You did what you thought was right, and that's all that matters. Sod the people who thought otherwise."

"You don't understand."

"Explain it to me, then."

"There's a reason I don't tell you certain things, Arthur."

"And why's that?"

"Because you're so quick to jump to conclusions," Francis remarked, waiting for the backlash he was surely going to receive. He knew better than to play tag with Arthur's temper.

Much to his surprise, however, Arthur didn't seem eager for a round of sparring. He only brought his hands back to his sides and muttered, "If that's the way you feel…"

Francis rubbed his palm against his forehead and wrinkled his nose. "It's not. I'm sorry—my poor sleeping habits are getting to me. It has nothing to do with you."

"I'm going to step outside for a minute."

He raised his eyes to look at the clock on the nightstand and scowled. " _Mon dieu_ ,Arthur. It's four in the morning."

"And?"

They didn't need another spark to set them off again, so Francis merely shook his head and returned to his slumber. "Don't wake the boys," he added.

* * *

"Climate. C-L-I-M-A-T-E."

"Correct! Take a shot!"

Matthew picked up the plush toy designed to resemble a basketball and aimed it for the bin at the head of the classroom, pensive and poised. A flick of the wrist and the ball made its target, rolling into their makeshift 'basket' and causing one side of the class to burst with applause.

"That's another point for the red team."

"Great job, Matt!" one of the students praised, slapping him on the back.

"All right. The next word is—"

" _Mr. Kirkland_."

Arthur set the workbook of vocabulary words aside, furrowing at the intruder. Was he ever going to be given the opportunity to actually teach? Dismissal was only an hour away.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Yao. Class, what do we say?"

" _Good afternoon!"_ the children greeted in unison, jittery with excitement. Clearly, they were impatient to get back to their activity.

Yao nodded his head at the students and glued a smile onto his face. "Hello, everyone! What's going on here?"

"Oh, just a friendly round of spelling-basketball. We're reviewing for our exam on Thursday," Arthur jumped to explain, motioning to the points they'd tallied up on the chalkboard. The winning team would earn an extra five points on their tests as well as a piece of chocolate.

Yao's brow twitched in distress. "How nice. Could I have a few words with you later today?"

"Certainly," Arthur said, as pleasant as ever. He wasn't going to make a scene in front of his students, and though Yao look as if he wanted to say more, he let the issue drop for the time being. And then, it was back to their gripping game.

He thought nothing of the request, seeing as Yao usually had a bone to pick with him. They'd quarrel over the matter for a good thirty minutes and then go about their lives, generally unscathed. Thus, it wasn't troubling news in the least, until Alfred gave him a disgruntled look after the final bell rang.

"Dad," he whined, stomping one foot in protest once all of the other children had left the room.

"I know you're upset that you have to wait outside of the office for me, lad. I'll only be a minute, I promise," Arthur soothed, hating the rancid guilt in his stomach. He led the twins out of the classroom and down the hall, uttering multiple apologies. The two boys occupied a pair of seats next to the school's secretary, and after a stern instruction to behave themselves, Arthur ventured toward the principal's door.

Someone appeared to be inside, so he stood off to the side and checked his watch during the wait, wondering what Francis had prepared for dinner.

"I don't want some _faggot_ teaching my son!"

All of the movement in the office reached a pause, and several pairs of eyes turned toward the scene.

Arthur tensed, slack jawed and bewildered as a middle-aged man stormed out of Yao's office. He caught the angry parent's eyes and steeled himself, lungs constricting at the outburst. He waited for anything—a string of violent curses, a punch in the face—but the man only directed a murderous glare at him before departing.

"Dad?"

His throat was suddenly very dry and when he turned to address Alfred, he realized his mouth was too numb to configure any words.

"Daddy? Are you okay?" the boy was just as frazzled as he was, gawking at him with large, blue eyes.

Matthew looked much the same, hanging onto every inhale of breath.

He hadn't been prepared for _that_.

"Arthur? You can come in now."

Although his mind struggled to register proper thoughts, he was soon standing in front of Yao, gaze petrified and cold. "Yes?"

It was a brief conversation, from what he remembered. There were not-so-fervent apologies on Yao's end as he released the atomic bomb, killing all dissent. This was the end, and they knew it. He was brushing the finish-line with the tips of his fingers.

"I'm going to have to let you go."

He had claimed it was because of the bickering over the curriculum, but Arthur knew better. The reason he was fired had been clear from the very start.

"I deeply regret that things had to come to this," Yao droned, rearranging the pens on his desk. His general disinterest in the situation added insult to injury. "You will be missed."

For a long moment, he couldn't move. His legs were steel support beams drilled into the floor, unwilling to walk away and spare what dignity he had left.

 _Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing_ _the look of disappointment on your face._

Arthur swept out of the room and slammed the door behind him, nearly snapping it off of its hinges. He yanked the twins out of their chairs and led them down the hallway, unable to vent the anger boiling through his veins.

"Daddy, slow down!" Alfred cried as they made a prompt exit. The fear in his voice was unmistakable.

"Arthur? Is everything all right?"

He pursed his lips at Gilbert as they passed him, and his fellow colleague seemed to get the hint because meandered back into his own classroom, silent and downtrodden. He did, however, creep out of the room a second later to say, "Take care of yourself."

The car ride home left the atmosphere nothing short of caustic, and Arthur went through four cigarettes by the time they reached the driveway once more. Ringlets of smoke occasionally found their way to the backseats, and the twins turned up their noses at the smell. Neither boy dared to speak, so they exited the car in haste, taking refuge in the foyer.

Loneliness had seemed beautiful then.

Arthur rested his head against the steering wheel, keys dangling from his limp hand as he agonized over the situation. Francis was going to kill him. He couldn't show his face anymore. It was his turn to sleep on the couch.

One minute of wallowing soon became ten, and that was when Francis's concern overtook his frustration. The man carefully made his way over to the car with worry glittering in his eyes. He knocked his fingers gently against the window on the driver's side, full of unspoken sympathy.

" _Mon chou_."

"Not now… Please, not now."

"Oh, open the door, Arthur. I can't leave the boys unsupervised in the house for too long."

Obediently, Arthur unlocked the car, and Francis was upon him within seconds, carding a hand through his hair and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Funny, he'd done exactly the same thing for Francis over the past two months.

"I heard what happened."

"Alfred told you?"

"Who else? He's my informer, isn't he? We should have him work as a government agent someday."

Arthur slumped his shoulders and tightened his fingers around the wheel until his knuckles were white. He'd done it now. They went from two stable paychecks to no source of income in a matter of nine weeks. "We have to sell the house."

"Don't say that. We'll cross that bridge later. We're okay for now." Francis eased, kneading his shoulders. "Besides, we can talk about this tomorrow. Until then, you need a good cup of tea and an evening with someone who'll take good care of you—and I know just who's ready for the job."

"Matthew?" Arthur mocked with a miserable grunt.

"I'm glad to see you have enough resolve to be sarcastic," Francis commended with a roll of the eyes. He tapped the other man's shoulder softly and urged him to stand. "Come, sitting around here isn't going to fix anything… How do you think they found out?"

"Our informer let the secret slip, I'm sure. I'm willing to bet he harmlessly told someone he has two fathers."

"We can file a lawsuit for this, you know."

Arthur scoffed and finally rose to his feet. "It's suburban Pennsylvania, Francis. Things like this happen all the time with no repercussions. It's technically legal."

"We'll move to a more liberal state, then. I've always wanted to visit California."

"Woe is me."

"Or Massachusetts. Boston is nice, don't you think? There's also Chicago, New York—it's your choice, really. I'm not picky."

"How about we focus on that tea first?"

Francis hummed in approval and swung the front door open. "We'll find a solution. It'll just take a little more patience."

"You know that's a challenge for me," Arthur griped, dragging himself into the kitchen with a long groan.

"Well, it's a good thing you still have your cigarettes to cling to. You're going to need them."

* * *

Sometimes unspeakable things happened, and it wasn't good to talk about them—Alfred knew this much. So, he didn't talk about the day Daddy lost his job. He pushed away the memories like foul cough syrup and didn't linger on them. He whitewashed the words and went to school with a cheery smile duct-taped to his face.

He paid no mind to his new teacher—didn't even bother to catch her name on the first day. He wanted to tell her that Daddy was better at giving definitions to adjectives, but he was so heavy and tired that it didn't seem to matter anymore.

And when his classmates spoke horrible things about his family, he forced himself not to hear them. He hadn't even known there was anything wrong with the way he lived until everyone jeered at him during recess and avoided him like he was contagious. He was a bad apple from a forbidden tree.

He was the kid from the _weird_ family.

Mattie stopped what little speech he used to utter. For a week or so, Alfred worried that his brother might've actually become sick, and that his voice had been taken away from him. How awful it seemed to live without being heard.

They did, at least, speak to each other whenever possible, but there wasn't much to say, and Alfred was starting to think his voice was being taken from him too. When a group of older boys knocked his lunch to the ground one day, he tried to get himself to scream but couldn't. The silence was spreading everywhere like fire.

After school, Papa would help Mattie and him shrug out of the straps of their backpacks and ask, "What did my bumblebees do today?"

Their response was well-crafted and executed the same way each time. The boys would exchange flat expressions, wiggle their brows in contemplation, and then say, "Nothing really, Papa."

 _The lies were eating them._

On occasion, they'd eavesdrop on Daddy and Papa's conversations. Ear pressed tight against the door to their bedroom while Mattie hovered nearby, Alfred listened to far too many of their evening debates. Sometimes they were just whispers in the dark, and other times, they escalated to verbal attacks until one of the two remembered to keep quiet.

" _Shh_ , the boys will hear."

"Please go and talk to Antonio."

"I'm not going to beg the man for a position."

"It wouldn't be begging."

Alfred didn't know who this man named Antonio was, but Papa must've finally spoken to him because by the following week, he had a job as a patrol officer uptown.

Tensions went from boiling to simmering. Papa was happier when he was working, even if he complained about his low-rank job. It was nice to be able to see Papa as a cop again—Alfred used to brag about how he caught bad guys all the time, and now he'd be able to resume his gloating.

Not long after that, Daddy became a substitute teacher. He went from school to school and told anecdotes about all of the students. Some schools were better than others, and Alfred could tell whether a school was good or bad by how tired Daddy would be at the end of the day. A good school meant that Daddy would take time out of the night to read to Mattie and him. A bad school meant he'd go straight to bed, one hand cradling his head to soothe his migraine.

Daddy was the best reader in the universe. The boys loved whenever he chose a tale from their well-stocked bookshelf with his reading glasses perched on his nose and a tepid cup of tea at hand. He'd settle himself onto Mattie's bed and wait for the twins to lie on either side of him, tucked in and adequately cuddled, before beginning the narrative. Papa's readings just couldn't compare.

Alfred's personal favorite was _Where the Wild Things Are_. He wasn't sure why the story stood out to him, but each time it was read to him, he'd be overcome with an inexplicable mix of euphoria and sadness. It brought back some of his voice and warmed his sleepy mind.

Daddy made all of the words sound right.

" _And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all."_

A few more minutes, and it'd be time to part ways again.

"What did the wild things cry?" Daddy asked just as Mattie fell into a doze. He was slumped against Daddy's shoulder, lips slightly parted.

"Oh, please don't go—we'll eat you up—we love you so!" Alfred supplied with a grin as Daddy pecked Mattie's forehead.

"That's right. Now, it's high time you go to sleep, my boy."

"Already?"

Daddy gave him the softest of smiles and tickled his side, causing him to squirm. "Yes, already."

"Goodnight," Alfred muttered, pouting.

"Sweet dreams."

And so, they marched onward into the future, treading with care as to not stumble again. One day, Mattie presumed to ask if they would ever be taught by Daddy again, and their father's response was immediate.

"Of course you will. I teach you every day, don't I?"

It wasn't exactly the answer they'd been looking for, but they should have anticipated it.

They marched and they marched. Third grade came and went, so did fourth, and fifth. The house became emptier over the years—bare, almost. They were on a tighter budget now, but that wasn't the only reason for their sparse décor. They all became colder—cynical beyond their years.

Sixth grade was a breath of fresh air. The boys went on to a proper "middle school" and found that, at least on the surface, it was far more welcoming to them. No one knew their names. No one knew their family. No one could tell them they were living wrong or that they were going to hell. They were free.

Not to mention the school had a track team of their own, which Alfred immediately joined. Running was still his most valued hobby, and he raced and raced until his stomach felt queasy and his feet had blisters on them. Hot showers now consisted of picking calluses the size of nickels off of his heels and soles, but he didn't mind. The track was his addiction—it called to him and whispered into his ear, challenging him to run faster each time.

Where Alfred excelled in athletics, Matthew followed suit in academia. He made the honor roll during his first semester and surrounded himself with only a handful friends, preferring to keep to himself. He was still a child of few words, but that only prompted others to share their rapt attention with him when he did have something to share. His brain was a sponge, soaking in everything around him at all times.

Unfortunately, as the winter season rolled in, outdoor track was put on hold. Alfred still ran inside whenever a race presented itself, but he spent a fair amount of time at home after class, roughhousing with Matthew. A good wrestle every now and then was their preferred alternative to playing outside in the cold, and as the weeks zoomed past, their matches became increasingly more tactical and skill-oriented.

There were still bad days, though.

Like when Daddy came home one day and paced around the living room until midnight, waiting for Papa to return. Papa wasn't around as much anymore, and Daddy didn't drive them to school anymore because they usually just took the bus. The boys would go through most of the day without seeing either parent, and to see them stressed during the night only made them feel worse about the distance between them.

"Dad? Where's Papa?"

"I'd like to know the same thing," Daddy growled, livid. He fiddled with his cellphone and then slapped it on the coffee table in frustration. "Go to bed, Alfred. It's past your bedtime—follow Matthew's example."

"But I'm old enough to stay up later."

Daddy raised a brow at him and gestured for him to leave. "Not this late."

"I'm eleven! Only little kids go to sleep at this time."

"Alfred, don't test me right now. I'm not in the mood," Daddy warned him, forehead creased. He was tired. A bad school, probably. "Off with you."

"But I—"

"Alfred!"

He wasn't going to win. He wanted to stay up and greet Papa so they could talk about his upcoming race, but he knew Daddy wouldn't let him lose sleep.

By the time he reached the bedroom, his enthusiasm had been extinguished.

Matthew cracked his eyes open and stared at Alfred's bed for a long while, unsure of what to do.

"Want to go sledding tomorrow?" he suggested.

"I don't want anything anymore," Alfred whispered back, heaving the covers over his head.

* * *

"Can I ask you something?"

His eyes fluttered open from their dormant state and focused on the young man in the passenger's seat of their patrol car. The static from the radio was slowly beginning to drive him mad. "What is it now?"

"What are you doing here?"

Raivis, a rookie officer with a childish demeanor, was—regrettably—his partner. In essence, he was still a boy, inexperienced and cowardly when times called for action. Perhaps that explained why he was assigned mindless patrols, something had to be done to keep him away from wracking havoc and mass hysteria with his fledgling figure.

"Excuse me?" he asked the boy, scoping the perimeter of the street they were parked on.

"I mean, we sit here every day, right? Nothing really goes on—we're just here to maintain peace. I get that I'm in this role because I'm new and have to work my way up, but you—you seem like a guy with some experience up his sleeves. So, what are you doing here?"

Francis clacked a piece of hard candy against his teeth and sniffed. The shift was almost over. "I don't think that's your business. I'm here because this is where I need to be."

The coffee shop on the corner caught his attention. A couple was getting into some kind of argument, but their shouting was muffled by the windows in the car.

Raivis followed his eyes and said, "Want some late-night coffee?"

"Maybe some decaf," Francis agreed, stepping out of the car just as the boyfriend grabbed a fistful of his girlfriend's hair and nearly tore it from her scalp. Within seconds she was howling for help.

"HEY!" Raivis called to them, and the man immediately released the girl. "Take it easy!"

Francis approached the pair as Raivis muttered something into his walkie-talkie and waited by the car.

"Are you okay?" Francis asked the girl, hoping for a sincere answer. He had zero tolerance for any kind of domestic abuse, and he wouldn't hesitate to put the boyfriend behind bars if he didn't cooperate.

"I'm fine, thanks. Things just got out of hand, officer."

"Yeah, she's fine now," the boyfriend affirmed, tightening a hand around the girl's forearm. "It's been a tough week. I think we both need some time to cool off."

"Let her go and take a few steps back," Francis ordered, waiting for a reaction.

"She's my girlfriend, and you have no right to get involved. Why don't you just mind your own business?"

Francis lowered his gaze to the man's hand, which was still squeezing the girl's arm and said, "That's battery and assault. I have every right to get involved. Let her go."

Of course, he'd expected a struggle, so when the man tried to take a swing at his jaw, he restrained him in one swift movement. He hauled both of the man's brutish arms behind his back and handcuffed him with a sigh.

"And _that's_ assaulting a police officer. You're under arrest. I'm going to have to take you down to the station."

The man was still straining to free himself, but Francis pressed his head down and directed him in the direction of the patrol car. He was going to be home late.

Raivis widened his eyes in awe. "We're actually arresting someone? Wow!"

 _Young and naïve._

Francis ignored his partner's amazement and plonked the boyfriend in the backseat. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"

"Uhhh… Yes?" the man grunted, beginning to calm down.

"Aww, why did you get to read him his Miranda rights? I've never had the chance to do it before!" Raivis complained, looking far too excited.

"Just get in the car and drive," Francis snarled, turning up the heater as he slid into the passenger's side.

"But wait! What about the coffee?"

Francis bit his tongue and grumbled under his breath, "I'll kill him."


	3. Chapter 3

_Be asleep. Be asleep. Be asleep._

"Arthur, you're up," Francis said with a disapproving glare as he meandered into the bedroom. His husband could be as stubborn as a mule and would deny himself a good night's rest for his company, but he couldn't find the heart to blame him for it. It was in Arthur's nature to be fretful while conjuring up worst case scenarios.

No, he hadn't been injured on the job, and yes, he had remembered to lock the front door on his way in. And _no_ , he hadn't overindulged to fill the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He denied himself many late night snacks because Arthur insisted frequent spikes in his glucose levels would surely lead to early-onset Type 2 diabetes. Energy drinks were entirely out of the question, and his caffeine intake was severely restricted.

Admittedly, he let Arthur mother him at times. The nagging often set him in his place, and who was he to argue with it? Arthur was always right. He anticipated every disaster before it struck—mostly, anyway. There was that one time when Matthew came home with lice in the first grade from sharing his polar-bear styled winter cap with another student and was miserable for a good two weeks, but not even Arthur's premonitions could've stopped that.

God forbid, however, if Francis tried to return the doting. Never one to relinquish control, Arthur refused to fall victim to fussing. Every tender chiding was perceived as a provocation, and eventually, Francis lost the will to try to break down his walls. Some men were chained to their pride for eternity.

Yet, they still needed one another to be at ease, and when Arthur's exhausted green eyes bore holes into his skull that night, he couldn't stop the twist of sorrow in his chest. He'd stayed up again, only to make sure Francis was all right—to be able to touch his face and know he was whole and safe. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course.

Francis tiptoed over to the bedside and tried to sneak a peek at what the man was working on. There were papers cumbering his lap, stapled and glowing with highlights. "What're you reading?"

"Words, words, words," Arthur replied, quite drowsy and disoriented. He was quoting Hamlet—not a good sign. "It's Hemingway's 'Hills Like White Elephants'. I'm reading it with a class."

"The terrible high school class that has ruined you?"

"Yes… They're a headache, but they're my headache. For a little while, anyway. Once a permanent teacher is found then I'll—damn you. Don't change the subject! Where have you been?"

"I had to stay late at the station."

Arthur huffed and put aside his annotated copy of Hemingway's collected works with a resound thump. "You should have called."

"I didn't want to wake you," Francis explained, taking Arthur's hand in his own. He worried far too much. "You have enough going on in that head of yours as it is."

A minute of silence washed over them as Francis changed out of his uniform and into something more appropriate for sleep. He'd crossed the room and began to settle under the bedcovers when Arthur raised his voice again, tone terse.

"You should have called."

"I'm sorry, _mon chou_ ," Francis whispered against the other's neck, nose rubbing against skin. "You know me, I have a tendency to misbehave. I didn't mean to make you worry."

Arthur sneered at the ceiling, rather restless. "I wasn't worried."

"Mmm," Francis hummed with a cheeky smile, limp-limbed and thoroughly fatigued. "I haven't had the chance to enjoy a good Hemingway story in a long time. Read me a part, would you?"

He'd finally said the right words, apparently. After a second of reluctance, Arthur shifted and rustled the sheets as he retrieved the story. He couldn't resist the opportunity to share literature with another soul, and his bookishness trumped his need to stay bitter.

"' _We can have everything.'_

' _No, we can't.'_

' _We can have the whole world.'_

' _No, we can't.'_

' _We can go everywhere.'_

' _No, we can't. It isn't ours any more.'_

' _It's ours.'_

' _No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back.'"_

Francis sighed, feeling the night's burdens fly away far above his head and splay against the stars. He loved his family—loved them more than they'd ever know. "Ah, the Master of Dialogue strikes again."

"I'll be lucky if I can grasp the class's attention for five seconds. To the untrained ear, Hemingway can seem dry."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to get through to them."

"You have far too much faith in me."

"Why are ye fearful? Oh, ye of little faith," Francis goaded him. Arthur was always more fun when riled up. "I think you're more than capable of mentoring a hoard of adolescents."

"You haven't seen me struggle to take attendance."

"Maybe you can show me some time after class."

Arthur scowled and turned off the lamp. "You must really want to sleep on the couch tonight."

They'd reached their limit of banter for the evening. Better to call it quits.

"Goodnight, _mon amour_."

* * *

"Can I call you Frank?"

"No."

Raivis looked deflated but hastily recovered from the blow. It seemed he'd been working up the courage to ask that question for a while. "Fine, but we need some codenames if we want to be a memorable crime-fighting duo. I think I'll be Black Raven. I can help you choose yours, if you're out of ideas."

Francis counted to ten and hoped he'd be granted some relief from this torture. This was what purgatory was like, then. "Finish writing up that parking ticket, and let's get out of here."

"I think Midnight Dolphin works well for you. It's cryptic."

" _Raivis_."

He stuck a yellow slip of paper under the windshield wiper of the vehicle at fault and nodded. "Don't worry, you can be the bad cop. I'll be the one offering water and mints to the scum of the city as you chip away at their alibis. Just call me Good Cop from now on—or Black Raven, of course. Either works, really."

"Are you done yet?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm comin'," Raivis appeased, heading back to the patrol car and climbing into the driver's seat. "The PA State Police is on it. We own this hood now. No one's getting away with a parking infraction."

"Don't let your power get to your head," Francis grunted. "We're here to serve the public—not condemn them."

"But you heard what Carriedo said! He was really impressed with our work as of late. This could be our chance to rise through the ranks. We could be the best officers on the force."

"I'd stay out of trouble if I were you."

Raivis' eyes twinkled with mischief. "Ha! Trouble is my middle name. Okay, Midnight Dolphin, it's break time. I'm in the mood for a Boston cream doughnut."

"You won't be a high-ranking officer if you gain twenty pounds on the job," Francis jibed, checking his watch for the hundredth time. Could the Latvian boy at least try to be more mature?

Raivis, however, ignored the criticisms and decided to make Francis even more miserable by singing along to the radio. " _First thing's first, I'm the realest…"_

"Raivis, one of us isn't going to make it home tonight if you don't—"

"This can be our song! _Rooftop like we bringin' '88 back_."

"You weren't even alive in 1988."

" _I just can't worry 'bout no haters, gotta stay on my grind_."

Francis groaned and pounded his fist against the window softly. "I used to be a Catholic until now. God should have spared me."

"Lighten up a bit!" Raivis said as he swung his head to the beat.

"You have a lot to learn, _garçon_."

* * *

The weather couldn't have been any more perfect, Alfred thought. He woke to a Saturday morning packaged in a crisp cocoon of snow—ideal conditions for sledding, snow angels, and snowball wars. The day clearly waited to be enjoyed, and so, Alfred hopped out of bed and raced down the hall, feet pounding against the floorboards as he rushed into the bedroom across from his. Staying inside was a crime!

"Guys, look at all the snow outside!"

Unfortunately, he came to a begrudging stop at the doorway because he wasn't the only visitor waiting to be tended to. His remark fell on deaf ears as a sallow Mattie stood ahead of him, teary eyed and shivering while Papa shushed him with quiet coos.

"Matthieu, what's wrong?"

"My stomach!"

Daddy rushed to them a moment later, wearing his slippers and a fleece sweater. He bent down and placed a practiced hand on Mattie's sweat-caked forehead with a frown. "He's warm, Francis. I'll get the thermometer and a fever reducer."

Papa made a sound of agreement and planted a comforting kiss in Mattie's hair. "Come, you can sleep in our room today. It's probably just a stomach bug."

Alfred wrinkled his face in displeasure. It wasn't fair! Why did Mattie have to get sick on potentially the greatest snow day of the year? Who was he going to go sledding with now? Why couldn't he just tough it out for a few hours? The agony!

"Here," Daddy said as he returned to the bedroom, flourishing a bottle of medicine and the aforementioned thermometer. "We're going to have to take a trip to the pharmacy for more Tylenol."

Papa helped Mattie lie down on the bed and took his temperature as Alfred lingered by the door, impatience peaking. "I can do that. We're running low on milk as well."

"100.6," Daddy said, feeding Matthew a spoonful of the medicine with encouraging murmurs. "Not as bad as we thought."

"I'll get dressed and try to shovel out the car."

And then, Papa zipped out of the room, nearly crashing into Alfred. " _Mon dieu_ , Alfred. I didn't notice you standing there."

"Papa, can I go and play outside?"

"I don't want you out there by yourself. Maybe later, all right? Would you like to take a ride to the store with me instead?"

It wasn't exactly the best alternative, but it was better than being cooped up inside for the foreseeable future.

"Okay," Alfred decided, skipping down the stairs for a quick breakfast. He didn't spend as much time with Papa as he did with Daddy, so it'd be nice to experience the morning with someone else for a change.

He chugged a bowl of cereal and flung on his winter coat, ready to traverse the unchartered territory of the North Pole when Papa came to collect him. They trudged over to the car, snow crunching under their boots as they cleared most of the snow away from the tires. Melting flakes seeped through their gloves, leaving their hands icy and wet by the time they were ready to leave the driveway.

"Can I ride shotgun?" Alfred asked as Papa started the engine and set the heat on full-blast.

The word "no" was already poised on Papa's lips, but Alfred put on his best pout to counteract it. He knew how Daddy felt about "children sitting in the front seat" and the "dangers" associated with it, but it wouldn't hurt to bend the rules for one day, right?

Papa released a flustered puff of breath and smiled. "Okay, but only for today. Don't tell your father."

"You're the best!" Alfred cheered, jumping into the passenger's seat with a grin that stretched from ear-to-ear. Papa was way easier to persuade than Daddy. "Can we get hot chocolate at the café later?"

"On our way back," Papa agreed, backing out of the driveway. "We'll buy some for Matthieu too. Maybe he'll feel well enough to drink it by the time we return."

"Uh-huh… Hey, Papa?"

"Yes, my bumblebee?"

"Don't call me that! I'm too old now!" Alfred protested, knitting his brows into a well-fashioned scowl. He'd picked up the habit from his father.

"You're never too old to be loved. Now, what was your question?"

"Is it bad that Mattie and I are adopted?"

Papa sniffled against the cold air and said, "Of course not. Plenty of children are adopted."

"People at school say that kids who are adopted end up at orphanages and aren't loved like kids who aren't adopted."

"That's not true in the slightest. Which people have been saying this?"

Alfred sunk down in his seat and twiddled his thumbs. "People…"

"Well, those people aren't worth your time, and you shouldn't listen to anything they say," Papa lectured, changing the radio station to something catchy and light-hearted. He gave Alfred a pointed look at the next stoplight, recognizing the theme of their conversation. "You know, Alfred, if you ever feel like someone is…bothering you at school, you should tell your father and me."

"I know…"

They didn't say much after that, seeing as Papa was busy concentrating on finding a good parking spot once they had reached the shopping plaza. Soon, they were off to the pharmacy, where Alfred insisted they had to buy orange flavored medicine because it was far superior to grape and had a less putrid aftertaste.

It was a brief ordeal, and then they were off to the grocery store to pick up milk, fresh produce, and bagels for lunch. Alfred tried to convince Papa to forego the asparagus and broccoli in their basket, but he lost this battle, much to his chagrin.

The promised hot chocolate was last on their list, and Alfred gulped most of it down by the time they reached the car again. It trickled down his throat and eased the cold that seemed to have seeped into his bones. His eyelids became heavy, and his breath slowed on their drive back, sleep creeping up on him.

Francis smiled at the sight and pushed down the urge to kiss the boy's head, considering it would rouse him. Silly, boy… How could he ever think he wasn't loved?

"Look out!"

 _The road was slick._

 _Should've seen him coming. Idiot, idiot, idiot._

A gasp tore out of his throat at the sound of squelching tires and bending metal. Someone outside was screaming as glass exploded from the back window and pelted him like a blizzard. His head ricocheted off the steering wheel, and the airbag deployed, smothering his face.

Someone had crashed into them.

Time stopped. He may have cried out in pain, but he couldn't remember as his neck began to throb.

"Alfred!" he wheezed, feeling something wet dribble down his hairline. He rotated to the right to get a look at the boy, but a flash of burning pain stopped him mid-way and made him see stars. His son—he had to make sure he was unharmed, but the pain increased by a tenfold every second, and soon the only thing his mind could register was the shrieking sound of emergency vehicles coming to the scene.

He let out a moan as the door on his side was wrenched open and a firefighter met his gaze.

"Sir? Stay very still, okay? You're all right," the man told him as he cut him out of his seatbelt. "Big breaths, now. Take it easy."

Multiple pairs of arms were dragging him out of the wreckage and onto a stretcher. His eyes were staring up at the gray sky, and snowflakes landed on his cheeks as he flailed an arm helplessly. "My son… Please, my son!"

The firefighter at his side was replaced by a paramedic, and a stethoscope was set on his chest. "He's being taken care of, sir. Tell me where the pain is."

Francis groaned and gagged on his own spit, barely catching what was being said to him. "Neck."

"Can you move your head to the side for me?"

"Can't… Hurts."

"All right then. Let's get you a brace. Can you tell me your name?"

"Francis."

"Okay, Francis. I'm gonna have to lift your head a little bit. I'll try to be very gentle," the paramedic said, guiding him along. Gloved hands worked their way down the nape of his neck and directed him where to move.

He winced as he was jostled momentarily, but then his neck was finally immobilized by the brace, and he wasn't on the brink of going unconscious anymore.

"You're doing great, Francis."

"Is Alfred all right? Oh, God—"

"Let's take care of you right now. Are you allergic to any medications, Francis?"

"No."

"Any medical conditions?"

"No. "

He was being rolled into the back of an ambulance, but there was still no sight of Alfred. Everything of importance was blocked from his view. He did, however, see a glimpse of the ruins that remained of the car. It'd been smashed like a can of soda.

"Do you have an emergency contact I could reach?"

Francis squeezed his eyes shut as tears slithered down his nose. "My husband, Arthur."

He recited Arthur's cellphone number and felt the sting of an IV needle being inserted into the top of his hand. Then, the doors to the back of the ambulance were slammed shut.

"I'm gonna give you something for the pain, Francis. You just hang in there and try to relax."

"I need Arthur."

"We'll call him as soon as we get you to the hospital. Sound good?"

Above him, he could hear the steady screech of a siren, and it made his head hurt more than it already did. The paramedic was cleaning up a wound on his scalp, but he couldn't feel the burn of disinfectant on his flesh because of the strong pain medication. Everything was numb and freezing all at once.

His mouth began to move against his will, and he spoke in delirious babble.

"I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die, Francis. You're in pretty good shape."

"I put him in the front seat… Shouldn't have been in the front…"

The doors to the ambulance swung open once more, and he was being pushed into the hospital, half-awake as a doctor tried to strike a conversation with him.

But he wasn't in a conversational mood, and he felt the sudden urge to be sick. He tried to roll over on his side, but he no longer had control over his muscles, and he was left to sputter for help. "Going to be—"

The doctor, the paramedic, and a nurse carefully positioned him on his side, and he promptly retched into the basin provided for him. Now he knew how Matthew had felt earlier that morning.

"Suspected spinal injury and maybe a concussion as well… He needs a CT scan."

"Breathing, pulse, and blood pressure are all stable."

"Okay, let's also start him on methylprednisolone for any swelling."

He was sobbing now—he could feel the high-pitched wheezes struggling to make their way out of his throat and into the world. He'd forgotten what it was like to cry and hear his mangled tone. His entire face was damp with a mix of perspiration and tears, and he wished Arthur were there. Wished he would just take his hand and tell him it was all right. He was safe. Alfred was safe—healthy and safe.

He imagined Arthur's voice in that drowsy lilt he had late at night, and pleaded with him to read him a piece. Dostoyevsky, Salinger, Orwell—anything. He swore he heard Arthur whispering a Carver story in his ear—pictured him holding the boys and speaking words that cured every ill.

" _I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark."_

* * *

"Matthew, I want you to finish all of your toast," Arthur reminded, ruffling the boy's hair as he had his brunch in bed. "And where has your father wandered off to this time? He's not answering his phone. Maybe your brother is being a handful, hmm?"

"Probably," Matthew replied, nibbling on his food without much enthusiasm. His appetite was understandably nonexistent.

"I'll be right back, lad. I'm going to step out for a minute."

He lit a cigarette and stood in the snow covered driveway, watching the smoke gather in tiny clouds before blending with the air. Something nagged at him, but he wasn't sure what was giving him such an uneasy feeling. Francis rarely ignored his phone calls, and with Matthew under the weather, it was strange Francis hadn't answered the first time.

He snuffed out the cigarette and buried it in the snow before heading back toward the house. It wasn't until he reached the door that he noticed the phone ringing. Had Francis's cellphone battery died? That made sense.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, I'm calling for a Mr. Arthur Kirkland."

"Speaking. How may I help you?"

"This is Allentown State Hospital… There's been an accident."

His blood curdled and froze. Surely, they had the wrong number. What kind of demented joke was this?

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your husband and son are in our care because of an automobile collision."

"I-I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"You were listed as the emergency contact."

He gripped the side table for support, fingers trembling. The part of his brain that still managed to function began to plan a route to get there. Allentown… Allentown… Thirty minutes away—longer by bus. He'd have to leave Matthew with the neighbors.

"I'm on my way."

And then, he ran.


	4. Chapter 4

Never let it be said that Arthur Kirkland couldn't keep his composure in moments of chaos.

It was clinical. He could stop the splurges of emotion from oozing out from beneath his chest by slicing a divide in his thoughts. Being a substitute teacher had sharpened the knives of this ability, and he held apathy close in the face of horror. He could grab heartache and gloom and despair by their collars and tell them to just _wait_ —to understand that there was a proper time and place for calamity.

All in the span of seven minutes, he had swaddled Matthew in a throng of blankets and steered him over to the Vargas residence, where the boy was showered with kind reassurances and promises that he'd soon be right as rain. Arthur offered a hurried explanation of the circumstances, but he needn't have bothered. The Vargas brothers had Matthew settled on their living room couch not a moment later and fetched a wide assortment of food meant to quench the boy's churning stomach.

"Thank you so much. It'll only be a few hours, and I can pay for—"

Lovino Vargas took his turn to look offended and slapped away Arthur's hand as he reached for his wallet. "We don't want your money! This is an emergency, idiot. Now, go! The boy'll be fine."

A tad stunned by the gruff response, Arthur cleared his throat and shared a stony expression with Matthew. "Be good, lad."

"I want to go with you!" the boy insisted at once, tears obscuring his vision. Alfred was his other half and he'd been affixed to Francis for as long as his memory had served him. He couldn't bear the thought of being separated from the two.

"I'll take care of everything, but I need you to rest for now," Arthur replied, leaving no room for argument. "I won't allow you to grow even more ill from a trip in this horrid weather. Get some sleep, and I'll call you later."

"Hmph."

And thus, one crisis was avoided. As soon as Arthur was certain there was nothing else he could do for the child, he sprinted to the nearest bus stop and prepared himself for a tedious wait. With the roads still slushy, there was sure to be a delay in the bus service.

Thankfully, his ride arrived within fifteen minutes (which was just when he began to twitch with irritation), and he clambered inside the bus with wobbly legs, finding it difficult to stay calm now that he had been left to his own devices.

He didn't allow his thoughts to wander toward the injuries of the accident—no use in hypothesizing the damage. Now was not the time to sulk.

He walked an extra four blocks from the designated bus stop to the hospital. Well, "walking" wasn't exactly what Arthur had been doing—careening, yes, but not walking.

Security stopped him in the lobby and asked him to present his ID, and then he soldiered over to the nurses' station on the unit. Alfred wasn't allowed to have visitors yet—he was still being seen by the doctors—but Francis was awake and down the hall.

Hoping his feet wouldn't fail him now, Arthur slowed his pace and found the appropriate room number, bracing himself for the worst.

He peeked inside and saw a physician standing over his husband, who was reclined in bed with an elastic bandage swathed around his head. Otherwise, he appeared to be relatively unscathed.

"Francis. Oh, thank God."

Arthur sprinted across the remaining distance between them and wrapped his arms around the man, unable to stop tears of gratitude from cartwheeling down the sides of his face. He was okay. He was breathing and sitting up and wonderfully _alive_. His chin was still stubbly, his hair was still sun-bleached, and his eyes were still cornflower blue and scintillating under the fluorescent half-light of the room.

"Arthur, I'm so sorry," Francis muttered into his shoulder. He was shaking.

"Oh, shush, you damned numpty. How dare you put me through something like this?"

"Alfred. How is Alfred?"

"I wasn't able to see him yet."

"Arthur, it's all my fault… He was sitting in the front seat and—"

A chaste kiss connected with his brow. "Stop that. You're okay," Arthur muttered, directing his gaze to the doctor. "He is okay?"

The doctor dipped his head in confirmation. "Fortunately, yes. However, he is suffering from whiplash and a strain in his lumbar spine. He should rest his back for the next forty-eight hours and decrease his physical activity for two weeks. That means no overly strenuous activity such as lifting heavy objects or running."

"I'll make sure he doesn't exert himself," Arthur vowed before snapping his attention back to Francis, eyes wild and untamable. "Don't ever put me through this kind of stress ever again, or you won't have a spine at all."

Francis swiveled his head to be eye-to-eye with Arthur, but his neck immediately began smarting again. "Thank you for being so—argh—sympathetic."

"Roll your shoulders carefully," the doctor told him, noticing his dilemma. "Little exercises like that each day should help you regain your range of motion. Light stretches will help as well."

Heeding the advice, Francis gradually tried to loosen his taut muscles. It helped somewhat, and the doctor soon took his leave, promising to pay them another visit within the next two hours.

"I need to stay overnight for observation," Francis said once they were alone again. His voice was strained as though he'd been shouting rally cries all afternoon, and his vocal chords wavered under the strength it took to mumble. "Please, go and find out if Alfred is all right. Arthur, you have to—"

"I'll check with the nurse again."

"Then, I'll go with you."

"No! Stay put, frog!" Arthur growled at him, slamming a hand against his shoulder to keep him supine. "You aren't going anywhere with those injuries of yours."

"But you don't—"

The protest dangled in its unfinished state on Francis's parched lips because Arthur was already roaming the hallways, unable to stand in one place for too long. He felt the itching need to smoke, but swallowed down the appetite when an RN directed him to Alfred's doctor.

A gray-bearded pediatrician met him in the waiting area, clad with a stethoscope whose diaphragm had an image of a duckling on it. He shook Arthur's hand firmly, and it radiated confidence.

"You're Alfred's father?"

Every word became coagulated cotton on Arthur's tongue, and he hid his jittering hands in his pockets. "Yes. How is he—?"

The doctor gave a glowing smile and fastened a hand on his back. "He's doing well and has been reacting better than expected to the medications. Most of his injuries are superficial."

"Most?"

"Let's start with the good news. Your son has no signs of a spinal injury, not even a minor one, which is fantastic. That's the most common problem we see in patients who have been in automobile accidents," the doctor informed him, never losing his grin. "Now, he has a sprained ankle, a broken left wrist, and a few lacerations here and there, but nothing that required stitches."

Arthur released a breath and gripped the inside fabric of his pockets. "And the bad news?"

The doctor's grin waned and was replaced by a slanted frown. "There's been rather extensive damage to his right knee. He has a damaged ligament, and he'll be in for at least twelve weeks of physical therapy. On the bright side, the knee doesn't need any surgical intervention, it's just going to be a headache to heal."

The cold feeling in Arthur's toes began to dissolve. A ruined knee was nothing compared to what could have happened. "Why his knee, of all things?"

"It's not as rare as it sounds, considering the car was hit from the rear. He most likely collided with the dashboard and his knee took the brunt of the impact. Our goal is going to be to try to get the entire leg back to full strength."

"Will there be any lasting damage?"

The doctor's gaze wandered for a moment as he went through the possibilities. "Well, knees are very complex and tricky to treat. Unfortunately, that is why—with this type of injury—there is nearly a fifty percent chance there will be degenerative changes. His right knee might always be weaker than the other, but we're going to do the very best we can to help."

 _Degeneration?_

And then it dawned upon him just how devastated Alfred was going to be by this news. He was a runner, born to stretch his legs beyond their limits, and if he couldn't race, then…

"Can I see him now?"

"Of course. He's a little dazed from the pain relievers, and it's made him a bit cranky, so be wary of that. I'll be over to have another look at him in a few minutes."

After a courteous thank-you, Arthur pursed his lips and pushed aside the curtain blocking Alfred's bed from view. The boy seemed to have been dozing off, but sprang his head up at his father's entrance, both relieved and a bit ashamed to see the man fretting over him.

"Oh, love."

The rain clouds hanging above them exploded, and Alfred's cheeks were covered in dewy drops of tears that washed away the fear burrowed under his skin. "Dad."

Arthur immediately took a seat on the bed and tugged the boy's upper-body onto his lap. His fingers ran through the child's hair like liquid, cooling the steaming aggravation crawling under his skull. None of this was fair. It was all horrid, _horrid_ luck. "Shh… How are you feeling, my boy?"

"Dad, my leg—!" Alfred wailed, crying a tsunami that couldn't be halted as it demolished everything in its path. He let himself convulse against the man's sturdy figure, drooling on his shirt.

"I know, poppet. It'll get better."

What else was he going to say?

He hated seeing his children cry, and he wished he had the power to take away the boy's sense of helplessness—to show him he was far more hard-nosed than he realized. Life wasn't over. It kept moving, and he'd have to move with it.

But Arthur's words did nothing to soothe the boy, so he wound his arms around the little waist and sighed. "I spoke to your doctor. It's going to be all right. Everyone's going to do everything in their power to make sure you get better. Stop these tears, they won't fix anything."

 _I will help you through this if it's the last thing I do. I swear it._

"I'm scared, Dad."

"There's nothing to be scared of. I'm here now, so you don't have to be afraid," Arthur muttered into his ear, continuing to stroke the child's head. "I love you, and I'm so relieved this wasn't worse."

Alfred's breathing began to slow, and he cradled his broken wrist close. His sobs quieted to hiccups. "Is Papa okay?"

"Yes, he's just fine, lad."

"Can we go home now?"

"Not quite yet. You're going to have to stay in the hospital for a little longer."

"How long?"

"Not too long," Arthur promised, scanning the hinged knee brace on the boy's leg as well as the swelling around his foot. This was going to be a challenge for both of them.

"When can I race again?"

"Not for a while, love."

"When spring starts?"

"We'll see."

That always meant "no". They were both fooling themselves.

He'd be lucky if he ever saw a track again.

* * *

A six-thousand pound SUV—that's what had pummeled their tiny Honda Civic. The poor thing had survived ten long years of their family antics before meeting its demise, and although it was hardly more than a semi-useful hunk of metal and cheap plastic, it would be missed. Arthur had explained to the twins that the vehicle was in "car heaven" now, more commonly known as the county junkyard.

The driver of the SUV had been a seventy-three year old man, and he'd suffered a stroke behind the wheel. It didn't take long for him to swerve into oncoming traffic, and it seemed that Francis had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time—not an unheard of phenomenon throughout his lifetime.

The man died in the hospital the following evening, but both Francis and Arthur decided it was better not to share this news with the boys for obvious reasons.

Alfred was released from the hospital two days later with the instruction to remain on crutches until at least his second week of physical therapy. Thankfully, their insurance covered most of the cost of the sessions, but there were a multitude of underlying fees that forced Francis to plan for the extra hours of overtime he'd have to stack up at the station. As it was, he had missed a week of work to get his bearings back.

Matthew had long since recovered from his bout of the stomach flu, and often complained about having to go to school while Alfred stayed home. Why didn't Alfred have to do his homework? Why didn't Alfred have to make his bed, set the table, and do the dishes?

"Your brother's not feeling very well, so we need to be considerate and give him some special treatment," Arthur had reasoned. It was only natural for the boy to be jealous, and his father tried to be as patient with him as possible. He stressed that this was a temporary situation, and things would be back to normal soon, but Matthew wasn't buying any of it.

They replaced the car, mostly because Arthur had to get to work somehow, and public transportation wasn't going to cut it. A lightly used Chevy stood in their driveway a few days later, courtesy of Francis. Personally, Arthur didn't have a preference for what kind of car they purchased, as long as it drove and didn't eat up gallons of gas within the span of driving just one mile.

Francis, however, seemed keen on getting a Chevy and nothing else. Arthur joked that his husband fancied himself a southern man, and they should've gotten their hands on a good ol' American pick-up truck instead, but he didn't comment on the matter further.

And it was odd, Arthur thought, that Francis had been dead-set on choosing the car but refused to go near it. He watched it from afar as though it were cursed. Arthur suggested he take it out for a test-run, but he wouldn't be persuaded.

"Don't do this to yourself, Francis."

"Do what?"

Arthur laid his lesson plan on the coffee table in the living room and fished a cigarette out of his briefcase. "The best thing you can do is get in that car and drive. You'll feel better afterward. If you don't do it now, you never will."

"I don't need you psychoanalyzing me, Arthur."

"I'm trying to _help_ you."

"Save your doting for Alfred."

No use in arguing over it. He decided to give Francis his space; he'd figure things out on his own. Stubborn mule.

Instead, he focused his efforts on the crestfallen boy who laid in bed all day and barely budged an inch except for meals. Alfred despised getting up for the late afternoons of physical therapy, and though Arthur had tried to encourage him every step of the way, they usually reached the rehabilitation center with hot tempers and flushed faces.

Arthur would walk the child inside and wait in a chair across the room as Alfred completed his exercises with the physical therapist. The man had offered to leave a few times, wondering if it would make the boy more comfortable if he wasn't watching, but each time he attempted it, Alfred would set aside the frustration he projected onto Arthur and say, "Please, don't go."

And so, he stayed planted to the chair against the wall. He would read the newspaper or chat with some of the staff, but he remained in his spot until the end of the session. Not even his cigarettes could pull him away from his post.

"Hello, Alfred. How's my favorite patient doing today?" his physical therapist, Toris, asked him during his visits, smile as bright as a million stars. A cheerful man, he always managed to wrangle a few giggles and snickers out of the child. "What's your pain level?"

"Seven," Alfred replied, perching on the little foam table that had been prepared for him. He let his crutches be moved aside, and soon Toris was upon him, checking over his leg with a few hums and murmurs.

"You have some swelling, so we'll stick to easy activities. If you feel any pain, let me know, okay?"

"Uh-huh."

Toris slid a hand under the boy's lower leg and bent the limb before straightening it out again, he did this about three times before Alfred cried out in distress.

"Stop! It hurts!"

There were tears in his eyes already, and they'd only just begun. The session generally lasted an hour, and he couldn't imagine going through any more "exercises".

Toris placed his right leg on the foam table again with a frown. "Can you tell me where it hurts?"

Alfred sniffled and pointed to the sides of his knee. "I can't do it!"

"Yes, you can," Toris assured, placing an ice pack on the knee. "You have a tear in your ligament, so it's going to hurt before it gets better. I believe in you, though. With a little practice, you'll be riding that exercise bike in the corner like it's a piece of cake."

Alfred pressed his fists into his eyes, unbelievably disheartened. Why couldn't they just leave him in peace already? Couldn't they see the torture they were putting him through?

"I can't even stand up by myself!"

At that, Arthur stood from his seat and approached the pair, hand connecting with the boy's head. "Come now, Alfred. Stop sniveling. Give it another go."

"You don't know what it's like!" Alfred screamed at him, puffy-eyed. He wanted to die. The whole world could catch on fire for all he cared, if only he could close his eyes and have some quiet. He didn't ask for this. He didn't deserve this. He was no better than a baby—unable to fend for himself.

 _I won't let you surrender._

Arthur let his hand fall back to his side with a peevish sigh. He knew there was no real bite in the boy's words. He needed to vent on someone, and his father was the nearest target. "Alfred…"

"I've got an idea," Toris supplied, cutting off their quarrel. "How about we let Dad help, Al? We'll show him it's not as easy as he thinks."

Arthur seemed skeptical of this idea, but gave Toris the benefit of the doubt. It calmed Alfred down, at the very least.

He circled the foam table and stood by his son's feet. A flash of panic ate at his heart. "I don't want to hurt him."

Toris knitted his brows and removed the icepack from the injury. "You won't hurt him. I'll tell you exactly what to do. Now, Al, let's get you lying down completely. Then, I want you to tense up your leg nice and tight. Dad's going to guide you through some simple leg lifts."

Alfred swallowed around the lump in his throat and laid flat on the table, staring up into his father's bewildered eyes. He was a whimsical sight, lost and terror-stricken. Alfred tried not to laugh.

"Okay, Dad. Move your hands here," Toris commanded, bringing one of Arthur's hands to the sole of Alfred's foot and the other to his lower leg. "Slowly, you're going to help Alfred lift his leg a little off the table. Take your time and don't let this kiddo cheat. I want to see that leg move at least six inches. If he tells you he's in any pain, then I want you to stop. Got it? Good."

Alfred readied himself with a deep breath, keeping his gaze steady on his father.

"Are you ready, Alfred?"

"Yeah, Dad."

He chewed on his bottom lip and watched as Daddy brought his leg into the air and down to the table again. It was a bit uncomfortable and all of his muscles felt stiff, but it didn't hurt by any means.

"You're both doing great!" Toris praised, thrilled with the outcome.

Daddy repeated the motion ten times and had worked up a sweat by the time he was done. "How do you feel, love?"

"I'm okay."

Toris cocked his head to one side and clapped his hands together. He knew his strategy would work. "That was excellent progress. Let's take another ice break."

Out of all of his remedies and treatment plans, a touch of love always did the trick.

The fact that it got the two to stop bickering was the cherry on top.

* * *

"Everyone's going to laugh at me!"

"No one is going to laugh, but even if they do, I want you to tell your teacher."

"I'm not going!"

"Lad, you have to go to school."

"But what about the stairs?"

The keys in Arthur's hand jingle-jangled as he reached the front door. "I already called the school office. You're going to get an elevator pass. Come along, I'm driving you boys today, and Matthew is waiting."

"You can't make me!"

"Alfred, you have ten seconds to step outside. I have a class to teach."

The Battle of the Threshold continued for a good minute or two before Francis requested a ceasefire. He was returning to the station for the first time since the accident, and he wasn't at all surprised to see that Alfred was hobbling about on his crutches, trying to look intimidating and resolute as he badmouthed authority.

"You're far too old to be throwing temper tantrums, my boy."

"I don't care!"

Francis jerked his head in Arthur's direction and pulled his shoulders back. The dark circles under his eyes were growing more pronounced each day. "Arthur, I'll take care of this. We'll take the bus together."

Despite not being too fond of the offer, Arthur had already wasted enough time and decided to take the bait. "Will you two be all right?"

"We'll be better than ever," Francis replied, though he lacked the zeal to support his claim. He plucked Alfred's backpack from where it was slung across Arthur's shoulder and led the child out the door. "Let's walk, _mon lapin_. Walk and talk, hmm?"

Alfred curled his nose up and glared. "I _can't_ walk."

"I don't believe that. You're getting around, aren't you?"

"The crutches are hurting my arms."

"Good, you'll build up some muscle. The other boys at school will be jealous," Francis backfired with a wink. If only the child didn't mope about with that awfully sad expression all day, then he'd be more willing wrench a few rehearsed smiles on his lips. "It's nice you're going to school again… It'll help you get your mind off of things."

Alfred scoffed as they crossed the street at a snail's pace. "Everyone's going to laugh. Dad says they won't, but I know they will. I'll just be a tattle-tale if I go to the teacher, and everyone will hate me even more."

"I'm afraid there are terrible people everywhere, and they scorn you because they've never experienced hardship of their own. Someday, they will take back their bitterness," Francis told him just as the bus arrived.

"People always find something to make fun of me for…"

Francis drew in a sharp breath and helped the boy onto the bus, arms poised to catch him if he tripped. "There's a saying in French, ' _A laver la tête d'un âne, l'on y perd sa lessive'_."

Alfred took the seat by the window. "What's that mean?"

"To wash an ass's head is but loss of time and soap."

Silence, and then…

"Bwahaha!" Alfred sniggered, laughing until he was doubled over in his seat. A few others on the bus turned their gazes upon him.

What Francis wouldn't give to keep the boy smiling like that forever.

"Now, let's not tell your father about it, okay? It'll be our little secret."

Still caught in a bursting bubble of giggles, Alfred tried to nod but failed as his shoulders erupted with mirth again. When he was tranquil once more, he burrowed his nose into the sleeve of Francis's coat.

"Hey, Papa?"

"Mmm?"

"Can we take the bus again tomorrow?"

Something fluttered its wings in the man's ribcage.

"I don't see why not."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Sorry for being a few days late with this update. I was in Boston over the weekend and a little too dazed to finish the chapter on time, but now it's finally here! Please enjoy it and leave a review! I appreciate the support.

* * *

"Mr. Køhler, I'm sure whatever you're whispering in Ms. Arlovskaya's ear is of extreme importance, but could it wait until after class? I apologize for the inconvenience."

The class guffawed and whistled at the remark, but it was clearly all in good fun. Antsy teens with rampant hormones needed to get the pins and needles out of their systems every once in a while, and Arthur was happy to oblige. Each of his students fell victim to his teasing at one point or another. No one was safe.

"Fortunately, you're all stuck here on another Monday morning with your most beloved substitute teacher. We have forty-five minutes to kill, and if we're lucky, you might learn a thing or two by the time I'm through tormenting you. That being said, who wants to read an Updike story?"

He could hear the crickets on the lawn of the school. Well, that just wouldn't do.

"I said," Arthur repeated himself while snatching up the gradebook off of his desk for everyone to see. He waved it from side to side like a flag. "Who wants to read Updike?"

A few groans of concession began to fill the room.

"What was that? These participation marks need some updating. Let me ask you all one more time… Who wants to read Updike?"

The rowdy boys in the back of the class broke into whooping cheers.

"That's more like it. Mr. Łukasiewicz, why do we want to read Updike?"

"So we can pass this class?"

Arthur steepled his fingers with a frown. "Oh, troubled youth. Are numbers on a piece of paper the only reason you're here? I guess I expected too much of you all. I was under the impression you were here to expand your minds—to understand literature and how it functions as a reflection of our society. And Updike, my darlings, is considered one of the greats. He wrote about the faults of American life, and the struggles of everyday people in a genuine and human tone. By a show of hands, how many of you aspire to be writers?"

Three hands out of thirty-two shot into the air.

"Do you know how one becomes a good writer? By learning from those who came before. You have to read the stories that have lived in the hearts of man for decades. They're the best teachers you'll ever have. However, that doesn't mean the rest of you shouldn't read the classics. You ruffians have to develop your own style and voice as well, whether you like it or not. How are you going to write a resume, email your boss, or share your ideas with the world if you can't find your voice? Therefore, we're going to read Updike's 'My Father's Tears'. You can thank me later. The first lesson is free."

He got a round of chuckles out of the disgruntled crowd.

"Feliks, why don't you start us off since you were so eager to make it through this class?"

The teen took his elbow off his desk and glowered at the collection of handouts in front of him.

" _Come to think of it, I saw my father cry only once. It was at the Alton train station, back when the trains still ran._ "

The period was nearly over by the time they finished reading the story, but there was just enough time remaining to allow Arthur to announce the homework assignment.

"I want everyone to start thinking about their final essay for our short-story section. It'll count as a test grade, so take it seriously. You'll have to form an argument based on the themes of at least two stories and provide textual evidence to support your view. I'll have a rubric by Wednesday. Enjoy the rest of your day, Western children."

As the bell rang and everyone dispersed, the Assistant Principal of the English department, Elizabeta Hedervary snuck into the classroom with a friendly smile.

"Mr. Kirkland? How have the students been?"

Arthur took a sip of the tea on his desk and let out a short laugh. "They're an interesting bunch."

"Every substitute I've tried to find has complained about them. I don't know what it is about the junior class, but they're a menace," Elizabeta revealed with a sigh. "They seem pretty tame when they're with you. I don't know how you managed it."

"Me neither," Arthur admitted with a smirk. "They've struck a soft spot in me. I really want them to get something out of this course, even if this is just another mandatory English class."

"I was hoping you would say that. What do you think about taking the position full-time?"

"As in, teach them for the rest of the term?"

"Exactly."

Arthur rearranged a stack of documents and considered the offer. "I'll need a day to think it over."

"Of course. Sleep on it, and let me know your decision. We'd be happy to have you teaching here, Mr. Kirkland. It's obvious how much you care for these students."

That was precisely his problem.

* * *

Though he had been hoping to sweep recent events under the rug, school couldn't be cast aside with the rest of the muck, and it reared its ugly head as a constant reminder of all the things he could no longer appreciate. The daily routine that once fit Alfred perfectly now impeded him at every given moment, and it made him feel sick—dizzy and sick and so, so, so tired.

If his shoe came untied, he couldn't bend down to fix it without hot pain swimming up his leg like molten magma in his veins. Everything about moving made him feel sore, and by the time his first class was over, he wanted to go home. He didn't need school anymore. He knew how to read and write—he'd make it through life just fine without earth science. Time to raise the white flag and head home.

Going to gym didn't help matters. He sat in a folding chair by the teacher while everyone else carried on with running relay races and playing basketball. It sucked to observe the fun without partaking it in, but that wasn't the worst part. The thing that made him want to storm out of his chair and roar into the void of the gymnasium was the _staring_. Someone was always gawking—always dazzled by his existence. There was their track star—their golden boy—who had been reduced to crawling. Oh, how the tables had turned.

Even sitting down hurt if he didn't extend his leg enough, and each time one of his teachers asked him if he was okay, something would snap inside of him. Poof. There was his patience.

To answer their question, no, he wasn't okay.

Yet somehow, he sat through gym and survived, despite the odds. When the bell rang, he rose to his feet with the help of his crutches and made his way for lunch, ignoring the many pairs of eyes burning holes into his back. He could ignore them. He just had to turn his head away and get lost in a daydream.

At least, he _had_ been ignoring them until a classmate came up to him during recess.

"Hey, Al! Not so fast anymore, huh? You can't beat me in a race now! Hehe!"

 _Don't respond. Don't respond._

"My mom saw your dad on the street yesterday. Your _dads_ , actually. She said you were hurt because God doesn't like kids who have fags in their family."

No one was supposed to know. _How_ did he know?

It was the last push he needed.

"SHUT UP!"

He spun around with his healthy leg and immediately felt the urge to tackle the boy to the ground. He would've pummeled him. He would've made him take it all back. He didn't care if Daddy said that violence didn't solve anything. It made him feel better, and that was enough. He couldn't stand back and take it, especially not with all of the anger sleeping inside him.

The rest of the students from the other classes were eavesdropping now and inched forward to have a better view. They hadn't been at the center of such excitement for a while, and they were hungry for blood.

He even spotted Matthew in the crowd of pre-pubescent children.

Some of his anger dissipated. He still had an ally.

"Mattie, aren't you going to say anything?"

His brother flinched and scuffed his shoes, hands behind his back.

"Mattie?"

He chose not to fight the war, even if the war was being fought for _him_.

Alfred tightened his grip around his crutches and swung one of them at his bully's stomach, knocking him to the ground and beating the air out of his lungs.

"Ooooooh!" the students gasped, alerting the adults in the yard.

"Alfred!"

All of the teachers knew his name—they'd stored it for safe-keeping when the rumors began to spread about the 'poor, little boy who suffered a terrible accident'. He was famous—infamous.

His math teacher had been the one to intervene in the fight, stern-faced and squinty eyed. He snagged onto Alfred's shoulder and led him back toward the school building as the other boy was rushed to the nurse's office.

"What was that about, Alfred? It wasn't like you."

He wouldn't cry. He had to be tough and brave to defend himself. Hopefully, he'd be suspended and given a reason to stay home. Then again, his luck hadn't served him well lately.

"He deserved it."

"Hitting another student is prohibited. The principal is going to expect an apology."

"I won't apologize. He deserved it, and I'm not sorry."

"We're going to have to call your parents."

"Okay."

And call they did, even though both Francis and Arthur were at work and couldn't leave early to attend the 'disciplinary conference'. Much to Alfred's dismay, this problem was solved by keeping him after school until one of his guardians became available.

He spent a good hour on the pleather couch in the principal's office, complaining every once in a while about the pain in his knee. However, his pouts and efforts to gain sympathy failed, and he counted the number of books lined up against the walls during the wait instead.

Daddy was the one to drop by, of course, since he was let out of work earlier than Papa. He stepped into the office and introduced himself to the principal, huffing and puffing a bit from the journey. Then, he seated himself next to Alfred, pretending not to notice him.

"I apologize for all of the trouble. As you may know, Alfred's had a difficult week, and I think it's had some negative effects on his behavior," Daddy rushed to explain, and Alfred could smell the fresh scent of smoke on his jacket. "I will be having a lengthy discussion with him tonight regarding this matter."

The principal nodded his head and expressed his understanding of the situation. There was an exchange of chit-chat between the two adults, which Alfred zoned out until he was free to go.

Seemingly an eternity later, Daddy rose from the lumpy couch and helped him up.

"Am I suspended?"

The principal smiled and cocked his head. "As long as you promise to behave in the future, no."

Alfred frowned. He'd misbehave more often, if necessary.

Daddy thanked the man for his time and escorted Alfred out of the room. They didn't say anything to each other, and Alfred hoped his father wasn't too upset with him. He hated when Daddy gave him the silent treatment.

"Dad?" he asked once they were outside.

"Yes?"

"I had to do it."

Daddy clicked his lighter and lit a cigarette, sticking it between his teeth with a sigh. Snow started to fall again—a dusty flurry that put the afternoon to sleep. They were dancing in white. "I know, love. I believe you."

Alfred dropped one of his crutches. Who was this man and what happened to his father?

"What?"

"I said I believe you. Now that it's out of your system, don't do it again, all right? This was your one get-out-of-jail-free card. Next time, you'll be grounded, and I'll have you scrubbing the bathroom, regardless of whether your leg hurts or not," Daddy cautioned, handing him his crutch and unlocking the car. "Let's go home."

Alfred sniffled against the cold air and hesitated as his heart soared with fear. He'd missed the last school bus, and Matthew was probably at home already. "I want to take the bus."

He searched for his courage, he really did, but it had already escaped him for the day.

"Not you too," Daddy groaned, bringing a hand to his head. "First the frog won't get within five feet of the car, and now you."

"I'm sorry."

Just another example of how he'd let someone down.

Daddy embraced him in a half-hug and shook his head. "Don't be sorry, love. I'm being insensitive. We'll take it slow, and if you really don't want to ride in the car, you don't have to. You _do_ have to try though, okay? Let's just get out of this snow."

Daddy convinced him to get into the backseat as he shuffled into the driver's seat. Then, they sat in silence with the doors closed, completely still and immobile. Daddy wasn't in a hurry to start the car. He adjusted his mirrors, finished his cigarette, and then took to buckling his seatbelt.

"Everything okay back there, poppet?"

Alfred clamped his teeth down on his bottom lip and nodded.

His father turned his key and the engine flared with life, humming and thrumming. The radio sang the week's popular hits, but the car stayed in place.

Nervous, Alfred undid his seatbelt and begged his tears to stay in his eyes. "D-Dad? I don't… I don't…"

Daddy sighed again and cut the engine before circling around to the other end of the backseats. He climbed inside and sat beside Alfred, rubbing his shoulders with croons of reassurance. The child was as rigid as stone, petrified. "It's okay, Alfred. It's okay to be afraid."

"No, it's not! It's stupid!"

"Shh, now. It's perfectly normal. We can take the public bus, if you'd like. I'll come back for the car later."

Alfred swiped away a few stray tears and leaned into Daddy's touch. "No, I want to ride in the car."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Daddy kissed his forehead and nodded. He carefully put Alfred's seatbelt on for him again, checking to make sure it was snug. "Okay, my boy. If you change your mind, we can stop at any time."

Fingers raked through his hair once more before Daddy got out of the car to return to the driver's seat. "Close your eyes and relax. Try not to think about anything. Take some deep breaths.

He followed the advice, eyes wilting to a close as he realized just how exhausted he was. All of the emotions he'd been ruminating over caught up with him, and before he could stop himself, his head lolled against his chest. Fast asleep.

He dreamt he was chasing the stars.

* * *

Construction of the Kirkland-Bonnefoy residence's snow fortress had begun. They had a shaky start, especially since playing together in the yard was the last thing either boy wanted to do. Papa whisked Matthew into the kitchen, whispered something in French to him, and then proceeded to herd them outside against their will.

The man thought the impromptu playdate would help sort out whatever differences the twins had been harboring against one another. He knew the two had gotten into an argument as soon as they had planted themselves on opposite sides of the dinner table. Naturally, he had to do something to help.

And thus, the boys were now out in the winter breeze, ignoring each other in full fervor. Arthur set Alfred up in a lawn-chair that was semi-buried in the snow, and supervised the construction site through the window in the kitchen every so often.

Matthew did most of the hard labor, since Alfred was restricted by his chair. Alfred did, however, aid the building effort by scooping up snow and carving snowballs with little faces on them to be their peasants. They continued working like this for about an hour until they risked speaking to one another.

"Why didn't you say anything at school?" Alfred mumbled, catching snowflakes with his tongue.

"What was I supposed to say?"

"Anything! It's like you don't even care! Doesn't the stuff people say bother you?"

Matthew turned away from him and narrowed his eyes. "I care."

"Then why did you let that guy say the things he did? Why didn't you back me up?"

"Because it wouldn't change anything. We can't change anything, Al."

"Well, I did change something. Now everyone knows not to mess with me."

"He was my _friend_ , Al, and you hit him."

"What're you doing with dumb friends like that anyway? You say we can't change anything, but you've changed, Mattie. The real Mattie would've stuck up for me. I would've stuck up for you too—that's what brothers are for."

They didn't fight often, but when they did, it was brutal.

"I don't want to be the strange kid again," Matthew muttered, sidling his way to the other end of their fortress. "I have friends now."

Alfred snorted with disgust as he leaned his head back on the lawn-chair. "Yeah, friends that use you to help them with their homework and cheat on tests."

"You're jealous!"

"No, I'm not. It's better not to have any friends at all than to be around people who pretend to care about you."

"Why should I listen to you? You don't even know them."

"Because I'm your real friend," Alfred said, fiddling with the Velcro on his knee brace. Though he couldn't explain it if he tried, seeing that look of doubt on Mattie's face made him sad and groggy all over again like he was lost in fog and couldn't get out.

"You want to take my friends away from me like you took Papa and Dad!"

"What are you talking about?"

Before he could get a reply, Matthew dropped the snow he'd been carrying and trudged into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Alfred kicked beads of snow into the air with his healthy foot and groaned. "Dad? Papa? Can somebody help me up?"

He groped for his crutches on the ground below, making noises of distress as his search failed him. Maybe he'd be stuck in the cold forever, and the snow would cover him until he was discovered by explorers in the forty-eighth century. They'd recover his remains and wonder what had happened—what his life had been like. Would they be able to imagine the short span of time he'd roamed the planet for? Would they have snow too? Would they realize how beautiful and frighteningly frail their lives were?

A quiet grunt sounded above him before he was able to stand on his feet once more. His crutches found his hands.

"Let's get you some hot chocolate and talk about what's going on."

"Dad," Alfred sighed, cuddling close to his father for an extra crutch of support. He didn't know why he felt the need to pine for affection, but the hunger was there. "Nothing's going on."

"We both know that isn't true."

"It's all Matthew's fault."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Why do you always think it's _my_ fault?"

Daddy shrugged his shoulders at him and made sure he made it inside without slipping. "History has shown you to be the culprit all too many times, but I promise to listen to your side of the story without pointing any fingers."

Alfred hobbled his way to the kitchen table and grabbed himself an extra chair to elevate his leg.

"I think Mattie's scared."

"Scared of what?"

"No one loving him."

* * *

"Welcome back to the show, Midnight Dolphin."

Francis stared at the patrol car and threw daggers with his eyes, wishing he could bash the windows and rip out the steering wheel.

"Hey… I heard what happened. Word travels fast around here," Raivis went on, one elbow on the hood of their Crown Victoria. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"You sure? That sounded gruff."

"I'm _fine_."

"Okey-dokes. Well, let's get going then. If we have time, we should grab some grub at this new café they just built on Linden."

Raivis hopped into the driver's seat and raised a brow at Francis when he was slow to react. "You coming or what?"

"I…I think I need to speak to Carriedo."

"Ooh, cool! A chat with the boss, huh? All right, we can head to the administrative quarters right now. It's a quick drive."

Francis swallowed painfully and shook his head. "I need to go there by myself."

"I'll wait outside then. I totally understand the need for privacy and stuff."

"No, I mean, I'm not going to drive with you there," Francis clarified, sweating underneath his uniform despite the frigid temperatures. When had his jacket become so stuffy?

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

Something twinkled in Raivis's eyes, and he was out of the car before Francis could blink.

"I see… Can I at least walk you there? Y'know, it's not safe to walk in this neighborhood alone, even for a crazy tough cop like yourself."

Francis cleared his throat as his heart sporadically skipped in his chest. Was that compassion he was feeling? He needed a doctor. He needed someone to slice him open and find what was causing all of the madness of emotions in the underbelly of his rational mind.

"Whatever you like," he finally told Raivis, hoping he sounded more indifferent than he felt.

The rookie cop beamed a glowing smile at him with dimply cheeks and led the way. "I can tell you about this new girl I met on the way there. Man, you'd have to see her to believe it, but she's absolutely amazing!"

They talked about nothing and everything as they walked. Raivis heaved the weight of most of the conversation and took his time in elaborating on his social life as well as the woman he was interested in. He wanted commitment. He wanted to get married and have a family of three kids—two boys and one girl. They'd have a giant dog named Kylie and a grumpy, fat cat named Boris. They'd take arduous road trips, go camping, and Raivis would be part of the school PTA.

And although Francis wanted to roll his eyes and say that life often took its own course and refused to follow a plan, he still found himself listening to Raivis's ramble with interest. It was endearing. It reminded him of himself and how he'd once dreamed of his potential family antics with dripping tenderness and excitement for the future.

He got sucked into the topic of the conversation, and soon he was sharing things about his own family. He discussed Arthur and the boys at great length. He was married but didn't wear a wedding band because he wasn't always welcome to speak about the life he led. When he didn't have a ring, people didn't ask, meaning he didn't have to lie to them or risk hearing slurs.

"It must feel horrible," Raivis supplied, "to not be able to talk about your family with anyone."

"It's not as bad as it seems. It's like my secret gem that only I get to know and love."

He couldn't decide why, but he trusted Raivis. He trusted him not to treat him with contempt or repulsion. Besides, he wanted to be able to tell someone. He learned very quickly that he liked boasting about his family and all of the troubles they got themselves into.

"When Arthur and I were still dating, we decided to drive to Florida because we'd never been to the Gulf before. It was a sixteen hour ride, and we pulled an all-nighter to make it there faster. I remember driving at four in the morning, somewhere in the woods of South Carolina when we finally allowed ourselves a rest stop. We took the next exit and found a bar, at which point we both decided to get roaring drunk and spend the night at an inn, since we were in no condition to continue driving. You can picture how wonderful it was to continue driving in the morning, the harsh sun burning our eyes through the windows as we whined about our hangovers."

Francis chuckled at the memory and rubbed a sore spot in his shoulder. "Nowadays we would've done the practical thing that people with children do—take a flight to spare ourselves from the chaos of getting there."

Raivis grinned and sped up the pace at which they were still walking. "Why didn't you guys just crash at a hotel when you were halfway there?"

"Because we were young and stupid. I'm surprised we didn't get ourselves in an accident. We were really reckless, but that's the good part about being young—you can be stupid and get away with it. Life forgives you for those types of mistakes. When you're old enough to know better, it's not as merciful."

When they reached the administrative building, both men were disappointed that their conversation came to a halt. They were at work. There were things to be done.

And so, Francis shared one last parting look with Raivis and ambled away into the night, still telling himself the stories of the past.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** We've only just begun! Please leave a review and enjoy the chapter!

* * *

" _The only other position I can offer you is directing traffic."_

Francis turned it down. He could still feel the aches in his ankles and shoulders from when he used to stand on street corners, waving his arms wildly at oncoming vehicles with short-tempered drivers. He'd pushed his way through the task when he was fresh out of school and in spick-and-span shape, but he couldn't imagine doing that job now. His arthritis wouldn't enjoy being shaken up again.

As much as he didn't want to be working from a car, it was better than getting frostbite in the epicenter of this brutal winter while people flipped him off at every given second for delaying their commute.

So, he was stuck with Raivis once more. Lucky him.

"You're looking rather glum," Arthur said when he made it home that night, cigarette glowing a bright-orange from the moonlit driveway. "Did you take the bus?"

The curtains to the boys' bedroom were drawn. He'd missed his opportunity to tuck them in, and it wasn't the first time. "Mmm," he hummed, crossing mounds of snow to embrace Arthur. He snaked his arms around the man's neck and yanked the cigarette from between his lips. "I love you."

Arthur fidgeted as Francis dropped his nightly helping of nicotine on the wet concrete. "Someone's awfully sentimental. Rough day?"

"You could say that."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Francis could feel the tickle of Arthur's breath across his cheek as he sighed.

"The boys are still upset with one another. My investigation in the matter is still ongoing."

"You know those two—they'll be best friends by the time the sun is up. I wouldn't worry about it."

Arthur let out a visible huff into the cold air and broke their hug. He was irritated at having his concerns brushed aside so easily. "I know my children, and I also know that this isn't something as miniscule as fighting over a videogame. Early findings are showing Matthew to be having trouble at school."

"Mathieu? Are you sure we're talking about the same twin?" Francis asked, all ears now. "How do you—?"

Arthur smirked, relishing in his minor victory. "Our informer is back from his brief retirement. I spoke to him in the kitchen for an hour. He was hesitant at first, but the suggestion of some sugary snacks took care of that. Then, I went up to the boys' room to fold their laundry and found some rather incriminating evidence."

"You were snooping," Francis deadpanned.

"Pardon me, but I had probable cause. I decided a search warrant was in order, and now I've come to you to submit the evidence into the Kirkland-Bonnefoy Family Court."

Arthur withdrew a folded square of paper from the pocket of his slacks and passed it to Francis. "I'm sure you'll find that it meets the criteria for being admissible. The plaintiff would like to present it at trial, if you'd be so gracious as to—"

"A failing grade? Mathieu's never received a failing grade in his life! Just wait until I have a word with him. I'm going to—!"

"Easy-does-it, officer," Arthur calmed him, wrapping a hand around his arm. "Did you notice anything about that test? What subject is it?"

"English," Francis muttered, perusing the red marks all over the page. Liquid fury was compiling in his stomach. "I don't understand. Mathieu is wonderful at the humanities! His father is an English and history teacher for god's sake! If this were math, then I wouldn't be as surprised. I knew you were spending too much time fretting over those high school students. Your own son is struggling and you can't even—wait. This isn't his handwriting, is it?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes at his husband. "No, it isn't. He just signed his name on the sheet. What was that about me spending too much time with—?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. You must have misunderstood me," Francis hastily amended before pecking Arthur's temple. "So, what are we going to do about this?"

Arthur scowled but let the insult slide. "I think it's an attention-seeking ploy. We've been spending quite a bit of our energy on Alfred's recovery, and we let Matthew slip out of our sights. We'll sit him down tomorrow night and talk to him together, that is, if you aren't late from your shift."

Francis frowned and put the test in his coat for safe-keeping. "I'll be on time. If that boy _ever_ fails another test on purpose again—!"

Arthur laughed a quiet laugh and led them inside. "He won't. We'll make sure of it. Now, it's high time for you to take a shower and go to bed, but first I have some news of my own to share."

Francis toed his soggy shoes off in the foyer and slumped his head wearily. "I don't think I can handle any more news tonight."

"It's good news, I think. I've been offered a permanent teaching position at the high school. If I take it, I'll have three English and two global history classes."

"That's a lot to take on at once," Francis remarked, a tad worried. "You haven't taught their age-group fulltime before."

"You make it sound like they're mutants. If I was able to handle twenty-three screaming eight-year-olds, I'm sure some sixteen-year-olds won't be much worse."

"It's up to you, Arthur. Are you going to take the job?"

Arthur hung up their coats and shrugged. "I don't know. I wanted to consult you first."

"Oh, you make me feel so honored," Francis joked, flattered. "I'm going to give you the answer you don't want to hear."

"And what's that?"

He took Arthur's hands in his own and pressed their foreheads together.

"Do what your heart tells you to."

Arthur gave him a funny look and screwed his eyes shut—caught between amusement and frustration as leftover snow melted in their hair. "You're right… That's not the answer I wanted."

* * *

"All right, Al. I don't know about you, but I'm getting tired of these boring stretches. It's time we get you moving a little, 'kay?"

"Do we havta?"

"'Fraid so, or your doctor isn't going to be too happy with me. Not to mention Dad is getting way too comfortable and lazy in that chair over there. It's time we get his attention," Toris said with a chuckle in Arthur's direction. "Let's get you standing up."

Alfred hissed and gnashed his teeth as he was pulled to his feet without the aid of his crutches. "Toris, it hurts!"

"We'll walk for a little bit, and it'll get better," Toris promised, keeping one hand on Alfred's shoulder. "That brace is coming off in a week, and then you'll have to start moving on your own again. It's not going to be easy, but we'll work our way up. We've got nine weeks left to get you to the point where you can run circles around this building."

Alfred winced as he balanced his weight on his ailing leg. "I'm never going to run again."

"Pft, of course you will. You'll be running faster than all of us here. I bet you could beat Dad in a race _today_."

Arthur glared at the physical therapist but decided not to return the jibe as he skimmed a nature magazine. "Remember what we talked about, Alfred."

Blue eyes rose to meet the green with a heavy sigh. "I know. I have to try before I quit."

"That's right," Toris approved before standing a few feet in front of the boy. "Try walking toward me, Al. Don't hold onto anything. It's just you and me, taking a stroll."

Alfred rubbed at his sore knee through the brace and sucked in a gasp of breath as he took a tiny step.

"Good job. Keep taking baby-steps. Breathe and don't tense up… Keep going!"

The boy made half of the journey and paused, leg trembling.

"You can do better than that. Let's go, Al!"

He couldn't do it. He wanted to march up to Toris, look him in the face, and say, "Hah! That was _too_ easy," but he just _couldn't._

His leg gave away beneath him, and he promptly collapsed to the floor, moaning in despair because he'd tried just like Daddy told him to, but it hadn't done any good.

Arthur was out of his chair almost instantly, and he gave the speed of light a run for its money. He crouched before Alfred and caressed his clammy forehead, checking him over for any bumps, bruises, or scrapes. Aside from a wounded pride, he was all right.

"I tried, Dad," Alfred groaned up at him, horribly pale.

"Oh, I know, love. Thank you for being strong."

Two solid pairs of arms lifted him up and onto the foam table. For a moment, it felt like he was floating above the earth, but then he was sitting upright again with a bottle of water pushing itself into his mouth.

"Small sips," Arthur said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "How do you feel?"

"Weak."

Toris patted his back and brought him some hard candy to suck on. "We need to get some sugar into you. Lie back and rest for a minute."

"I'm sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, Al."

"I failed."

"Well, it's a good thing you'll get another chance later. We'll keep trying another time."

Alfred nodded at Toris and allowed Arthur to help him lie down. His father stroked his hair for a long while, sending tendrils of warmth and security down the boy's quivering muscles. Was it true what Toris was saying? Would he really get to run again someday?

"He's drifting off. Maybe I should take him home early," Arthur proposed, petting a thumb across Alfred's fringe as if to erase his troubles. "It's been a taxing day."

Toris took one look at the boy's slumbering form and agreed. "I think that's a good idea. I'll see you both tomorrow."

Not wanting to wake Alfred, Arthur hefted the child into his arms with a grunt and a hushed "When did you get so heavy?"

The boy only leaned his head against Arthur's chest with exhausted breaths, muttering to himself on occasion.

"You're okay now. I'm here, and I wouldn't dare let you go."

* * *

Eight beady eyes and thin brows waited before him, impatient and roving as they stamped down the sidewalk. He swung his head down to peer at his feet, doing anything he could to pretend he couldn't see them. He almost came up with an excuse to get on the last bus home, but everyone was so loud and revved up that he couldn't get them to listen to a word he said.

"Did ya see the look on Ms. Courtney's face when I got my test back? Owe it all to Matt. It's her own fault for making us read dumb, boring books no one's ever heard of—that's why you havta make do. Gotta find ways to get by, y'know?"

"Hey, when's my turn to get the answers?"

"You'll get your chance."

"That's what you always say, but I'm still waitin'," one of the boys he was with grumbled, knock-kneed and stocky. "Thought you were finally gonna share."

"Have I ever lied to you?" their ringleader asked, picking at a scab on his chin "You're always complaining. Anyway, maybe we'll chill at Greg's today. Introduce him to Matt."

A few of the boys grinned at the idea and bounded ahead of the group, jittery and frenetic. They knew they were in for a treat.

Matthew wasn't exactly sure who Greg was, but the others had mentioned him a few times in the past. Apparently, he owned a store and was as old as their science textbook. His wife had passed away a few years ago, and now he cared for his business as though it were a living, breathing thing.

"Yup, been a while since we last saw Greg, huh? Almost forgot all about him."

The sun was setting on another short winter day by the time they made it to Greg's shop, and they formed a little huddle outside to devise a plan.

"All right, Matt. You're gonna get in there and take something off the shelf. Don't let Greg see you or he'll send his dog after ya. We'll be here to help ya out."

"Stop scaring him. He ain't got a dog."

Matthew tightened a hand around the strap of his backpack and shook his head. "What do I have to do that for?"

"C'mon, are you a chicken? Everyone in this group you see here has done it before. You can't be part of the crew if you don't do it. Gotta introduce yourself to Greg, remember?"

"What if I get caught?"

A rumbling chorus of laughter from the other boys left him rigid. He hated it when people laughed at him.

"Guess you're not cut out to be one of us after all. I thought you were pretty cool at first but—"

Matthew cracked under the pressure, mind whizzing and whirring as he dared himself to be rebellious for once. He was already in trouble for wandering off after school without telling anyone, but maybe he could still get away with this. All he had to do was be cool-headed about it. No one would ever have to find out.

He could prove he was more than little, timid Matthew. He didn't walk around with his tail between his legs. He was a child like everyone else at school, and he needed to be scolded—wanted to be scolded. For once, he didn't want to be the stick in the mud.

Little, _bashful_ Matthew. The image itself made him gag.

"Okay," he whispered, and the others wound themselves up like springs as they bided their excitement.

He staggered forward and pushed the glass door to the shop open, feeling a rush of heat climb up his spine. There were a few people in the aisles, so he worked his way into the back, trying to find something to whisk into his bag so he could make his exit without looking like a fool.

There was a wooden box with a rather cheap looking watch in it, and Matthew quickly stuffed it away, heart banging against his body.

Little Matthew practiced his roar.

"Hey, kid!" one of the customers squawked in protest at him, red-faced and dumbfounded. "Put that back!"

He swore the whole world was shaking his head at him as he made a run for the door, shoving himself outside. Well, that had gone over _delightfully_.

He searched for his classmates, but they were nowhere in sight, and the only remains of them being at the scene were the footsteps inscribed in the snow.

Realizing he was trapped and had been set up for failure, he pulled the hood of his sweater over his head and continued his sprint across the street, gasping and coughing against the unforgiving wind blowing into his eyes and mouth.

And then, he heard a siren bellow after him, drowning out his squeaky roar.

* * *

"I told you, Raivis, you can't use your badge to get free entrance into that concert."

"I'm a hard-working member of law-enforcement and should be allowed some perks."

Francis rolled his eyes and reclined in the passenger's seat of the patrol car. He wouldn't touch the driver's side, but he'd talked himself into being driven around by Raivis. The rookie didn't mind being the designated driver, since he'd done most of the driving even before Francis's accident, and it set the older man's mind at ease to know some of the responsibility was off of him.

When they were in motion, however, Raivis would have to blast the radio as loud as it would go because Francis couldn't listen to the sounds of the road without feeling sick and panicked. The Latvian also insisted on keeping the pop station on with all of its flimsy lyrics and auto-tuned galore—he had to keep Francis in check somehow, and he couldn't be too nice to him. It was their makeshift compromise—they kept the radio on, but Raivis had control over the music—and Francis couldn't find the ire to argue.

But sitting like this, in the eerie calm of the approaching twilight, Francis struggled to remember what he'd been afraid of.

The static from their dispatcher drained the serenity washing over them, and Raivis strained his ears to get the information they needed through the garbled tones.

"We've got a shoplifter two blocks away," he announced after the static died. The engine stuttered and the radio spouted out trashy music before they were off, speeding down the street with urgency.

They reached the store in question in under a minute, and Raivis nearly pulled over to the curb to speak to the owner inside when something caught his eye. "Someone's running away. That's not suspicious at all," he said, motioning toward a person in a gray sweater and plump winter coat. "Let me take care of this."

Traffic ahead was slow to get out of their way, so Raivis left the car by a fire hydrant and started the foot-race, catching up to the criminal with surprising agility. He had a hand on the holster of his gun, and Francis's mouth grew numb as he realized why that marshmallow-esque jacket seemed familiar. A lock of blond hair peeking out from under his hood confirmed his suspicions, and he rammed the car door open, screaming obscenities at Raivis to get him to stop.

 _Not again. Oh, God… Please, not again._

"RAIVIS! STOP!"

The Lativian's gun was dangling in his hand already, a deadly warning for the perpetrator to give up.

"THAT'S MY SON! GOD DAMN IT, RAIVIS!" he barked, trying to catch up to the pair. Neither of them could hear him over the honking gridlock.

Raivis finally snagged their delinquent by the collar of his jacket and dragged him back as though he were a naughty kitten. Then, he set his gun back in its holster and frowned. "Hey, you're just a kid. I thought—"

"Mathieu!"

Francis was close enough now to be heard, and he tore the boy out of Raivis's vice-grip, panting. "What are you doing here? You should be at home! Your father is going to have a conniption!"

Matthew's breath caught in his throat as Francis held him still with a quaking fist bunched up around the front of his coat. He tried to say something, but the words came out as a jumble of terrified nonsense.

"Please, tell me you didn't rob anyone."

Tears poured onto the boy's face like a spilled glass of water, and he sobbed at the expression of pure fury Francis wore. "Papa, you're scaring—"

"Show me it! Show me what you stole!" the man demanded, holding out his free hand. "Right now, young man!"

Matthew dug into his backpack and handed over the watch, sniveling and wailing as Francis latched onto his arm and led him down the block.

"Let _me_ take care of this," Francis addressed Raivis as they passed.

The rookie held his hands up and nodded, feeling sorry for the child. "Don't be too hard on him, Bad Cop."

Francis clicked his tongue and made his way for Greg's store, ignoring the feverish protests from Matthew along the way. The boy was wriggling and thrashing in his hold, but Francis didn't relent. They must've made quite the show of themselves for the bystanders.

When they entered the shop, Francis directed Matthew to the register at the front counter and gave Greg an apologetic sigh, shoulders heavy with remorse. "I think we have something of yours that we'd like to return. Isn't that right, Mathieu?"

Francis placed the watch on the counter along with twenty dollars. "Do you have something you want to say, Mathieu?"

"I'm sorry," Matthew howled, clearly regretting what he'd done. "I'm s-s-sorry!"

White-haired and scraggly around the edges, Greg didn't look nearly as intimidating as he'd envisioned. The old man looked him up and down before conceding a gentle smile. "I suppose no harm's done now that the merchandise is back. I don't want to see you doing something like that again, boy. You're better than that—I can tell."

Matthew scrubbed the tears from his face and sniffled as Francis apologized for a final time and began their retreat to the patrol car. It was a short walk, but every step Matthew took with his father's hand on his wrist made him feel more dreadful than before.

"If you ask politely, maybe Raivis will agree to drive you home."

Raivis, the boy found, was able to make light of every dark situation. As they reached the car, he waggled a finger at Matthew and said, "So, what's it gonna be? We puttin' him in cuffs or what?"

"Not this time. I think a firm warning will do," Francis assured, escorting the child into the backseat.

"I dunno, Bad Cop. He looks pretty rough and dangerous to me. First it's Greg's Handy Dandy Supplies and then it's the Federal Reserve. You know how these things go," Raivis chuckled with a wink aimed at Matthew in the rearview mirror. "Anytime you decide to take him into custody, you just let me know. I'll read him his rights and offer him some water while you read through his computer history."

Matthew burrowed his hands in his lap and stiffened his posture, blinking away the sting in his bloodshot eyes. "Uhmm… Officer Raivis?"

The man perked his ears and flashed his signature grin at the boy. "What's up, shorty?"

"C-Can you please drive me home?"

"I dunno, tough guy. It's gonna cost ya, but I guess the first ride can be free. I'm a generous man," Raivis decided, flicking on the radio and smacking some gum between his lips. "I can sympathize with your criminal record, son. I used to get in trouble with my dad _all_ the time. You're lucky your dad is pretty cool, but mine was a seven foot tall Russian and would make me shine his shoes and clean out the gutter. Whew, you bet I cried through it all. Helped me grow a backbone though, and now I'm stopping youngsters like you from hijacking cars and assassinating the president."

Francis snorted and nudged him in the side with an elbow. "Keep dreaming."

Twenty minutes of banter and they were back at the Kirkland-Bonnefoy home, whereupon Francis got out of the car and walked Matthew to the front door. After a sharp knock, Arthur stormed outside and encased the child in a hug.

"Where have you been? I was worried sick when Alfred told me you didn't get on the bus with him! I had to cancel his physical therapy appointment and—Francis? What's going on?"

"I'm sure Mathieu will explain everything."

Arthur's face bore a scowl within moments, and he frowned at the boy shuffling from foot-to-foot in front of him. "I'm listening, lad."

Matthew worked his teeth around his bottom lip and said, "I stole…"

Arthur's eyebrows traveled further up his forehead. "You stole? Stole what?"

"A watch…from the store."

"Oh, you don't say?" Arthur growled under his breath, extremely disappointed and upset. Of all of the things he'd expected to hear, shoplifting wasn't one of them. "I want to have a chat with you, in that case. Have a seat in the living room."

The boy bowed his head and dragged himself inside, tears spilling anew.

Arthur pinched his nose and shared his exasperation with Francis. "Our sweet Matthew is in need of a stern lecture. I never thought I'd live to see the day."

"My shift will be over in a few hours, and we can have another talk with him together. We still have that test to discuss."

"Oh, yes. I haven't forgotten. I'll send him up to his room, and I'll save most of the conversation until your return."

Francis nodded and made a move to return to the patrol car. "I have to go."

"I know. Stay safe," Arthur ordered before giving Raivis a brief wave from afar. "Thank you both for bringing him back."

"Don't forget to keep an eye on Alfred as well. I don't want to find him spray-painting the school or setting garbage bins on fire."

Arthur laughed at that and, to Francis's grand surprise, didn't immediately reach for a cigarette. Instead, he adjusted the doormat so it was straight and ventured right back into the house.

Maybe he could be reformed.

* * *

"We are both disappointed in the way you've been behaving lately, Mathieu. We understand you've felt lonely since the accident, but that's no excuse for doing poorly in school or stealing. You should have talked to us. You know we'd never want you to be upset and keep it to yourself."

Matthew wanted to hide away in his room for the rest of eternity. The look in Daddy and Papa's eyes made him so sad that he thought he'd never see again because he would be blinded by tears forever. He'd just wanted to be heard. He'd wanted them to know that he wasn't as quiet and passive as they thought he was. He had a voice too, and it had the right to be heard like everyone else's.

"I'm really sorry!" he whimpered until Francis finally caved and wrapped his arms around him.

"Will you be a good _lapin_ from now on?"

"Yes!"

Arthur folded his arms across his chest and towered over the two, reeling in his teaching tone. "Matthew, my dear boy… Look up and listen to me."

The child raised his face from Francis's chest and stared up at the man, who made an imposing figure in the dimness of the living room.

"Sometimes, one has to make a choice when no one is watching, and you'll have to ask yourself difficult questions," he explained, kneeling down beside the boy. "If you knew you could rob someone or cheat or tell a lie and get away with it, would you do it? Many people would, but you don't have to be like them, Matthew. You can decide for yourself. You're the one who makes the choice, and this is possibly the greatest gift and curse we have—the freedom of choice… Of choosing to do the honorable thing even when no one seems to listen or acknowledge it in any way. We can't tell you what to choose. We can only hope you do what you feel is right."

"For example," Arthur continued with a playful smirk. "I tell your father to eat healthy on the job, especially since he works at night, but I'm not around to nag him and make sure he's doing it. He's an adult, and he'll be the one to decide what he does to his body. I trust him to take care of himself when I'm not there because I know he'll make good choices. Right, Francis?"

The other man loosened his embrace around Matthew and shook his head with a barely contained laugh. What a way to guilt-trip him. "Of course, _mon cher_."

"Now, your father and I have been talking, and we've talked about your punishment. You're not allowed to use your computer, play videogames, or watch television for the next week. You're also grounded for three weeks, and you'll be doing extra chores around the house."

Matthew nodded in understanding without argument. He'd expected something along the lines of that.

"Lastly, since Alfred is getting his brace off in under a week, we want you to start doing some activities with him in the yard. It'll be a good way to work out your differences, and Alfred needs some motivation to exercise that leg of his. You can help him with stretches and get him to move around."

What? Surely, that wasn't fair. He couldn't be forced to help his brother!

"But Dad—!"

"I don't want to hear it," Arthur silenced him. "We wouldn't ask you to do this if we didn't think it was beneficial for you both."

Matthew grumbled and griped about it for a while, but there wasn't any use in protesting.

Arthur ruffled his hair and guided him toward the stairs to get ready for bed. "You'll live, love. Oh, and one more thing."

Matthew paused on the stairs and glared down at his father, still unhappy with the arrangement.

"Make the right choice."

Why couldn't they just let him be a disobedient Mafioso? Things would've been easier that way.


	7. Chapter 7

He awoke to a gasping sound from his bedmate, and peeled his eyes open through the darkness to see Arthur hunched over and choking. Deep, hearty coughs rose up and out of his lungs, covers sliding down to his lap as he wheezed and rasped for breath.

"Arthur? What's wrong?" Francis murmured, fighting off the haziness of sleep as he clapped a hand onto the man's back and tried to shush him. He fumbled around for a bottle of water on the nightstand and found it after knocking something to the ground. Then, he set it in Arthur's hands and continued rubbing and patting his back. "Have some water, _mon amour_."

When the fit was over, Arthur drank greedily from the bottle and cleared his throat. He swayed for a moment, woozy until Francis got him to lie down again.

"Better?"

Arthur nodded and snuggled into his pillow to make himself comfortable. "Thanks. Go back to sleep."

"Not so fast," Francis chided before situating a hand onto the man's forehead. He might've been a tad on the warm side, but it was hard to tell. "This smoking habit of yours is going to kill you."

"Rubbish," Arthur mumbled in response, and it was apparent from his features that he was under the weather. His complexion was a shade paler, his voice was hoarse, and he'd neglected to shave the day before. "My mother has smoked for fifty years and Death has not taken her captive yet."

"You sound ridiculous."

Arthur just rested his head on the cool side of his pillow and said, "No, I don't."

"And you're becoming surly. Now I'm certain you're ill," Francis concluded before climbing out of bed. This was going to be a mental game of strategy. Arthur never allowed himself to be fretted over, not even when he had his wisdom teeth removed years back and was high as a kite after the procedure. He'd still wanted to go about his routine and gave up only when he'd burned himself on the kettle, earning himself a blistered finger and a maimed ego.

"I'm not ill, snail-eater."

"I'll believe you when you show me a normal temperature reading."

Francis wrestled a thermometer into Arthur's mouth and held it in place. "Don't be a child."

"'M not a child," Arthur groused, incoherent and half-asleep.

"Then let me take care of you for once."

Francis turned on a nearby lamp and held the thermometer under the light. "100.2. That's the start of a fever, English oaf."

"I feel fine."

"I'm sure you do," Francis muttered before pulling the covers over Arthur to tuck him in. Maybe the man would get tired of fighting him. "I suppose that cough of yours was nothing as well?"

"That's right."

Francis made a trip to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and returned with a bottle of purple cough syrup. "I want you to call and make yourself an appointment to the doctor tomorrow. He needs to check those charred lungs of yours. You're spending the weekend in bed."

Arthur groaned and mumbled something about wanting to do nothing of the sort, but then Francis was upon him again, wheedling the pungent syrup into him.

"Come now, Arthur. Down the hatch," Francis teased, propping him up. "I'll let you sleep after you take your medicine. If the twins can drink this stuff with a stiff upper lip, you can too."

And Arthur must have been at the end of his energy reserves because he mustered up one last groan of discontent before he allowed Francis to pour the muck down his gullet.

"Mmm… That's much better," Francis praised before rinsing out the medicine cup and returning to bed. He pulled Arthur close and wedged an additional pillow under his head to keep him elevated and help with his breathing. "No cigarettes until you've recovered, okay? I mean it. Smoking will only make the illness worse."

Arthur croaked out a noncommittal sound and fell asleep, wracked with chills despite the thick bedding.

Francis fetched another blanket from the closet and laid it over his grumpy companion. "You fool. See if I keep worrying over you."

His response was a moan of complaint as Arthur tossed and turned, entangling himself in the sheets. He must've heard some portion of what Francis had said because he peeked his eyes open and whispered, "Better a witty fool than a foolish wit."

"Not Shakespeare again. I've had enough of him. Sleep. _Mon dieu_ , sleep and stop being such a pain in my neck."

Arthur rallied enough strength to snort and chortle.

* * *

He wasn't entirely stunned to see that the opposite side of the bed was empty the next morning, disheveled and abandoned. After working out the kinks in his neck, Francis rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and intended to make the pilgrimage downstairs, only to catch his trio of miscreants in the boys' room. They were gathered around and getting dressed.

"Why is everyone up so bright and early?" Francis greeted them, squinting through the harsh sunlight streaming through the window. He snapped his attention to Arthur, suddenly remembering their ordeal the night before. "And _you_. We're not starting this again."

Alfred tugged a hat onto his head and tried to put on his boots by himself. "Papa! Dad's taking us to the park to go sledding!"

Francis sent a scowl in Arthur's direction and helped the child wiggle his boot onto his injured leg. "No, he isn't. Your father is ill, and he's going to get in the car and take himself to the clinic today."

"Aww! Why does someone always get sick after the best snowfalls? This is the second time! The universe hates me!"

"I'm sorry, Alfred. Besides, I think it's a little too soon for you to go sledding. Let your knee rest for another week or so, and then we'll go. Okay? You can enjoy the snow in the yard," Francis consoled as he gave him his crutches. "Take Mathieu with you… Don't give me that look. I'll check on you both later."

When the boys were out of the room, Francis swiveled on his heel and looked at Arthur in disbelief. He stepped forward and felt the man's forehead again, even though Arthur tried to swat his prying hands away. "You're terrible."

"Francis, there's nothing wrong with me," Arthur insisted, though he'd nearly lost his voice from all of the coughing he'd been doing. He nursed a lozenge in his mouth and made an attempt at fleeing, but Francis obstructed his path. "It's probably nothing more than a cold."

"Even so, you should be taking it slow today."

"Hmph."

Francis had another approach up his sleeve. He snuck his hands onto Arthur's shoulders and massaged them, kneading away the starched knots nestled under sore skin. All he needed to do was get him to drop his guard. "Think about it… I could keep the boys out of your hair for the day, and you could take a hot bath—catch up on some reading. Then, when you come back from the doctor, I'll make you some chamomile tea with honey, and you'll take an afternoon nap. Some homemade soup wouldn't do any harm either. And then, _maybe_ , if you behave, I'll join you for a nap of our own and we can just relax… unwind…"

A low rumble of pleasure escaped Arthur before he could stop it. "I have to take Alfred to physical therapy since we missed the last session."

"I'll take him. It's not a problem."

"The bus stop is far from there. Don't make him walk."

"Shh, now. We'll figure something out. A walk will be good for him," Francis lulled before tapping Arthur's nose fondly and leading him down the hall. "Shall I get the bath started, then? I'll make it for two… Oww! I was only joking!"

After a thirty-minute soak and much persuasion on Francis's part, the man had begrudgingly agreed to get checked out at the clinic, none too happy at the arrangement. He brooded and moped for a while until he got into the car and couldn't turn back.

And so, with that settled, Francis took to making sure the twins were being civil to one another. Though they didn't seem to be on "best-friend" terms yet, they did sit in the snow together and talk while lodging snowballs at each other. A few more days, and Francis was sure their relationship would be rekindled.

Boys would be boys.

Around the time he was finishing the soup he planned to serve for dinner later, Arthur lumbered clumsily into the house, flushed and eyes at half-mast. He sat in the kitchen and laid his head in his arms, suffering through another cough.

Francis combed a hand against his hair and felt his forehead. Still fevered. "What did the doctor say?"

"Got bronchitis…" he said, voice muffled. "Caused by some kind of virus. He gave me a prescription for a more potent cough syrup."

"Did he say anything else?"

Arthur's glazed eyes rose from the table, and he flinched at the pain in his head. "Says it could become chronic if I keep smoking… He scheduled me for a lung CT next week, just to be sure everything's normal."

"I told you this would happen." Francis unraveled his husband's scarf and frowned when he smelled the odor on the fabric. "You were smoking? You were told you have bronchitis, and you're _still_ smoking? Have you lost your mind?"

"I can't just _stop_."

"Give me your cigarettes."

"Francis, I'm not—"

"Arthur. The cigarettes, if you don't mind."

Arthur sat up and guarded his pockets, trying not to sound petulant but failing. "I do mind."

"Fine then! Do as you please, but don't expect me to be weeping at your grave!" Francis turned off the burner on the stove and swept out of the kitchen, shaking with rage. Arthur always knew how to annoy him and get his way. Just yesterday he'd been preaching about healthy habits, and now he was poisoning himself like the hypocrite he was. For a well-educated teacher, he was a damned idiot.

Alfred and Matthew had wandered inside to see what all of the shouting was about when Arthur broke into another bout of unreserved coughing, sending a tremor through the entire house. Within seconds, Matthew ran out of the kitchen to find him.

"Papa, help! Dad won't stop coughing!"

Francis was sorely tempted to say, "Serves him right," but held his tongue. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. As infuriating as Arthur could be, he'd vowed to be with him in sickness and in health, unfortunately.

He trudged back to the stubborn mule and handed him more water, grimacing at the frantic wheezes Arthur was producing. He spit up some sputum into a tissue and groaned, ribs and lungs aching.

"Okay, boys. Give him some room. He doesn't need you both crowding around."

Alfred placed a hand on Arthur's leg and said, "Are you feeling better, Dad?"

His father nodded, but they all knew it was nothing more than a comforting lie. "I'm all right, poppet. I think… I think I just need to lie down for a bit."

Francis pulled out Arthur's chair and led him to the stairs. "Bed rest and fluids, that's what the doctor probably told you, hmm?"

"Something like that."

"Ah-ha, and how much sleep have you gotten today?"

"Five hours, I think. I woke up a few times during the night."

"And how much water did you drink?"

"Just what you gave me," Arthur admitted, letting Francis take off his coat and pilot him into the bedroom.

"Boys, if you see your father out of bed at any point during the day, you have my permission to scold him," Francis called to the children at the base of the stairs. They were still lagging behind their parents, entertained by the scuffle. They couldn't wait to put their new privilege to the test, and they were sure Arthur would flout the rules at some point. Time to stay alert and wait for the moment to strike.

The two adults made it to the bedroom without incident, and Francis looked on in astonishment as Arthur sat himself on their bed and removed the pack of cigarettes from his trousers.

"Here," he said, tossing the carton into Francis's hands. "I can't be trusted with them anyway."

Francis turned the Marlboros over in examination and stowed them into his own pocket. He'd come up with a hiding spot for them later. "I'll need the lighter as well."

Arthur dug through his pockets once more and relinquished the sterling silver Zippo, already feeling the craving to smoke. A switch flipped in his brain, and he almost clung to the lighter for dear life, as though Francis were asking to take a kidney from him.

"Thank-you," Francis murmured, wrenching the lighter from between his fingers. "You won't be needing this anymore. Sleep tight."

* * *

Unbelievable. Un-bloody-believable.

He'd been asleep for over two hours, and could feel the shame seeping into his bones. How could he let himself waste a perfectly fine day by doing absolutely nothing and loafing around in bed? Francis had to have slipped something into that cough syrup.

A yawn, a stretch, and then he was up and about. He habitually reached for where his lighter normally awaited on the dresser, making a sound like a dying animal when he recalled the great atrocity that had been committed that day; he'd given everything to Francis.

He coughed at the tickle in his lungs and stepped out of the room, leaving the buzz of the humidifier behind him. Seconds later, a new sound echoed against his ears, and it wasn't nearly as pleasant.

The screech of a plastic whistle left his head pulsating with pain, and he desperately tried to find the doorknob behind him to head back to bed. Another hour of loafing didn't seem too bad anymore.

The infernal noise was caused by no one other than Alfred himself. The twins were stationed in little chairs in the hall, playing cards and drinking juice.

"What're you doing, cadet?" Alfred said in a booming voice, quite proud of himself for pulling off an impressive tone. He boasted a toothy grin and blew into the whistle hanging around his neck once more for good measure. "Sergeant told us nobody gets in or outta that room 'cept him!"

"Alfred, what is happening here?"

"I don't havta answer your questions, cadet! We've got orders to be here. Hey, Mattie, you got a queen?"

His brother shook his head and took a swig of his juice. "Nope. Go fish."

"Darn."

Arthur smothered a cough in his fist and held the back of his hand against his forehead. Delirium was the only explanation for what he was seeing, surely.

"Did you go to physical therapy?"

Alfred let out a little whine and stomped the foot of his healthy leg. "Yeah, Dad. Papa took me. I can't talk to you right now! I've got a job to do."

"Did the swelling go down? You should put ice—"

"Daaaaaad. I'm not a little kid."

"I worry."

Alfred brought the whistle to his mouth and pummeled another gust of air into it, making Arthur hiss. "Cadet, I'm gonna call the Sergeant."

"That's enough of _that_ ," Arthur snarled, grabbing at the whistle.

"Stop it! That's an order, cadet! You can't—PAPA! He's not listening, Papa!"

Francis was at the head of the stairs a moment later and settled the quarrel, a book in his hands. "I'll take it from here, Officer Alfred. Go back to bed, Arthur."

"I'm going to the bathroom. I presume this powwow out here is your doing?"

"I needed a way to make sure you weren't on your feet for too long, and the boys were happy to lend a hand. At first, I'd only asked Mathieu to assist me, but Alfred took initiative and joined the party. He's a very dedicated member of the force, as you can see," Francis joked, elated with how well he had organized everything. "I have something for you when you're ready to talk."

Arthur hoped it was nicotine because he would soon be salivating for a cigarette. He disappeared beyond the bathroom door and left the police squad, smiling to himself with the absurdity of it all. How could he not smile? His family was wonderful and silly and—

As he was washing his face and scowling at the stubbly beard he'd begun to sport, Alfred put his whistle to use once more and said, "You're taking too long in there, cadet!"

"Alfred, let him be," he heard Francis tell the boy.

Even though he hated to acknowledge it, Arthur was ready to go back to resting because the scratchiness in his lungs wasn't getting any better and each breath he took seemed to exacerbate it.

He left the bathroom and sighed upon reaching Alfred, one hand on his hip. "I'm confiscating the whistle. Hand it over."

Alfred fought the hands that tried to take away the annoying piece of plastic and doubled over with a squeal as Arthur tickled him.

"I said to give it to me!"

"Never, cadet!"

They were both laughing as Alfred tried to shield the sensitive skin of his sides, neither willing to give up the battle.

"Mattie, call in reinforcements!"

The boy leaned away from Arthur's touches and suddenly stopped his giggles when his chair toppled. It sent him crashing to the ground, knee hitting the hardwood floor. Before he knew it, there were tears in his eyes—it hurt so bad he couldn't see straight. The fun twisted into horror.

"Alfred! Are you all right? I'm so sorry." Arthur rolled him onto his side and cradled his head, trying to ease his writhing. "I should've known to be careful. It's my fault. Come, let's get you to bed. We could both use a lie down."

With Francis's help, Arthur brought the boy into their bedroom and laid him on the mess of covers. When the two were comfortable, Francis left them alone, knowing that matters concerning Alfred were Arthur's expertise, just as matters concerning Matthew were his.

"We'll rest together, love," Arthur cooed, gently rubbing the smarting knee. "It should be all better soon. Look at us, we're both hazards to ourselves."

"I j-just wanted you to make you feel better!" Alfred cried, cuddling into his father's knit sweater. "Cause it's not the same when Papa takes me to physical therapy, and I like it when _you_ help me build stuff in the snow and when _you_ make me hot chocolate. Papa didn't want to let me help, but I told him he had to 'cause you always take care of me, and I wanted to do something good for you too."

Arthur stroked the injured leg and nuzzled a kiss into Alfred's hair. "Thank you for caring about my wellbeing so much."

He was touched, really. Ever since Alfred had been injured, he had a sinking feeling that the boy was upset with him, as though he'd been the cause of his ailment. It was a relief to hear that Alfred wasn't angry, and the soft spot he had for the child blossomed.

"I know I can be a rubbish cadet sometimes, but you know how to keep everyone in line, officer."

"I am pretty good, aren't I?"

"Fairly competent," Arthur agreed with a grin, fiddling with the whistle they'd been fighting over earlier.

This led to the continuation of the tickle war, and Alfred yowled in submission, flopping onto his stomach with a shriek. "Stop it! Ahahaha!"

"Break it up!" Francis decreed as he crossed the threshold with a bowl of soup at hand. "Officer Alfred, if you're feeling better, there's soup in the pot at the kitchen counter. Have Mathieu ladle some for you so you don't spill it."

Alfred picked up his crutches from the bedside and limped over to the door, saluting Francis on his way out. "Hah! I'm not gonna spill anything. Bye, Dad! See ya later!"

It was uncanny how alike they could be. Alfred must've picked up his adamant disposition from his father.

Arthur waved goodbye before settling into bed so Francis could set the bowl of steaming soup in his lap.

"Be careful, it's very hot. Finish every drop, and I'll give you nicotine gum as a reward."

"Can I have it now?"

"No."

"Sadistic frog."

Francis stuck his tongue out at him and scrunched his nose. "You _are_ in an awful mood today. Take better care of yourself, and I won't have to be so sadistic. I want you to go back to sleep after you finish eating."

"Well, we can't always have what we want, can we?"

The man underestimated him; Francis could be just as coy. "It's a pity you're so sick… I was thinking we could do something fun today, since you're all cooped up, but it looks like you're in no condition for it, especially when you consider all of the complaining you've been doing."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and ate the soup at a rushed pace, anxious and sweating—and, god, he wanted that gum. "Fun, you say?"

"Oh, yes," Francis chimed, slithering a hand down his husband's abdomen with a cheeky smile. He traced patterns over the famished belly and awarded him the promised gum when most of the soup was gone. Then, he stopped his caressing, swiped the bowl out of Arthur's lap, and sauntered over to the door. "What a shame… You'll have to miss out."

He quietly shut the bedroom door behind him and stifled a laugh when he heard his grouchy Englishman swear like a sailor and cough.

* * *

Days after the coughing subsided, Arthur bought himself a brand-new lighter, and a fresh fill of cigarettes. Francis wouldn't have known, except for the fact that the smell was unmistakable, and he'd witnessed Arthur smoking in the farmost corner of the yard, swirls and plumes of smoke waltzing out of his mouth.

"This has to stop, Arthur. Look at yourself."

He startled him, and the slender hand holding his cigarette fell from his lips. "I'll start cutting down."

"As if I trust an addict to keep his word. Did you hear the results from the CT scan?"

A sniff and a peevish grumble provided him with an answer.

"Care to tell me what happened?"

Gentle fingers touched the man's chin and turned him so that he was facing Francis. He flicked the excess ash from his cigarette and bit his tongue.

One glance into those troubled eyes, and Francis knew something was amiss. Arthur displayed an emotion he rarely allowed others to see—fear.

"Tell me what's wrong. Arthur, please."

"There's—there's an abnormal mass in my left lung. Might be an early sign of cancer… Might not be."

An iciness came over him, and Francis flung an arm around the other's waist, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Why did he always try to keep these things to himself? Didn't he know they were in this together? Didn't he know he loved him even though he was insane? Who was the one who had embraced Francis when he'd quit and told him he would take charge? And who was the one who stayed up late at night to make sure he made it home safe? Who had taken care of him and Alfred after the accident?

Who was the one who told Francis that life would move on—that he'd be okay despite what had happened the day he watched a man die? The day he'd lifted his gun and lost all hope in himself. The days when he'd hated every inch of his being. The days when he saw nothing but a monster in the mirror, and Arthur smiled at him as though he were the most flawless soul in the world and said, "Hush… You knew this might happen. It is the way it is. It's the horrible reality of the job… You did your job. You had no choice."

But he did have a choice, and he'd chosen wrong. He could've let himself get shot. He had a bulletproof vest on that day. They could've both survived, and he wouldn't have to sleep with scars on his mind, haunting him and telling him he was a nothing more than a disgusting murderer.

"I love you. I love you because you care for every single person in this town, and even when they aim weapons at you, you tell them it's all right… To lay down their arms because you can still help them," Arthur whispered during mornings when he couldn't get out of bed. "And that's what makes me worry… The danger you're willing to put yourself through without raising a fist."

Who had convinced him to go back to being a police officer?

So, why couldn't he let him return the favor?

"What do we do next?"

"I'm supposed to get a biopsy, so we can find out what it is."

"How would it be done?"

"In the hospital. I'd be there a few hours, and then they'd send me home the same day. They stick a needle into your lung, grab some tissue, and screen it."

Arthur didn't seem very eager to go through with it, as evident by the sour expression on his face as he spoke.

Well, like it or not, Francis was going to make him do it.

"I want you to have the procedure done. Pick a day next week when I'm off of work, and we'll go. The boys will stay with the Vargas brothers, and you can call in sick."

"You can't—I _won't_. What if something goes wrong? I'll have a collapsed lung."

Condolatory and understanding, Francis set a chaste kiss on his ear and said, "It has to be done, Arthur. I'm sure the chance of complications is low, so don't be scared. I'll be with you."

"I'm not scared."

"Of course not," Francis mocked him and cupped a hand around the back of his head. "It's _okay_."

And the way Francis said that word gave it a million meanings.

They stood in silence for a little because neither wanted to speak, and sometimes it was better to say nothing at all.

"If we're done here, it's time to take Alfred to physical therapy again. He'll be saying _au revoir_ to the crutches and brace today. We should bring Mathieu along… It's important that we include him in these things."

And though his hands were shaking like a leaf, Arthur put on a casual front. "You never told me how you managed to get them to reconcile."

He was human, just like the rest of them.

Francis felt a sadness in his gut, swishing back and forth. His rough and gruff Arthur had withered, but he knew he'd be back soon enough.

"I can't divulge all of my secrets, _mon chou_ , but if you must know, I didn't do a single thing."

Arthur's head shot up, and he glanced back at the house with a frown. "How did they—?"

"I suppose if children can unite during great adversity, we'll be all right as well," Francis said.


	8. Chapter 8

"Baby-steps, that's all," Toris had said, swinging Alfred up to his feet with glee. "Take it nice and slow for another week or so until we build up that strength again."

He thought he'd heard the same instructions before. Toris always talked about building strength, but even weeks after the accident, Alfred still felt like a newborn calf that was just learning to use its legs for the first time. He stumbled and staggered, landed himself on asphalt one too many times, and battled through a litany of pains and cramps in his leg.

He didn't feel any better about the situation with Papa and Matthew watching on as though he were made of eggshells. They constantly asked how he was doing, wondered if they could get him anything, and mumbled to one another in French whenever they said something that wasn't meant for Alfred's ears.

They were about to leave the rehabilitation center, but Alfred couldn't find the will to walk. He stood on wavering legs and shuffled a few inches forward before pleading with Toris to give him his crutches back. The man compromised and said that he would get a medical cane to take home with him, but it was only to be used when absolutely necessary.

"Come, we can walk to the car together," Daddy insisted, before locking his arm with Alfred's. Then, he turned to Papa and said, "You two go on ahead of us. We'll meet you there."

When the other half of their family was out of sight, Alfred hobbled a few feet toward the exit, trying to mask the humiliation and pain he was feeling.

Daddy parted his lips into a pleasant smile and followed alongside him. "Don't rush. We'll move at our own pace, lad. Take all the time you need, and if you fall, I'll be here to catch you."

Alfred bit his lip with a nod and carefully shifted one foot in front of the other. He had an urge to reach a hand down to massage his searing knee, but resisted, as it would only make matters worse. At the rate they were moving, he was sure a sloth would've given them a run for their money, but Daddy didn't seem to mind how they hadn't covered much ground in a timely manner. He just kept his arm looped around Alfred's like a bow and told a cheerful story about how his high school students _loved_ receiving stickers and stamps on their assignments.

"You'd think they were a nest of six-year-olds," he joked as Alfred's forehead grew grimy with sweat. "They all think they're well on the road to adulthood, but they're still childish at heart. I always tell them not to grow up too fast—they'll have plenty of time to be adults, but they'll get away with being children only for a little while."

Alfred managed a strained grin and kept going, letting the sound of his father's voice cool the lava in his muscles. They were halfway across the parking lot now, and he was determined to make it to the car without a single slip-up. Baby-steps.

"Ahh, but you'll know what that's like soon enough. In a few years, you'll be a dramatic teenager too."

Within moments, the energy that was spewing out of him before vanished without a trace. Alfred felt himself grow faint, and he reached out an arm to catch himself, frantically grabbing at thin air.

"It's all right. I've got you," Daddy said, hoisting him up and chasing the black clouds in front of his eyes away. Seconds later, Alfred found himself atop his father's back, arms latched around the man's neck. "I'll finish the rest of the walk for you this time, hmm?"

Alfred slumped his head down so that it came to rest on a sturdy shoulder, hating every atom of his body. Why wasn't he getting better? He'd done all of the exercises Toris had ordered, rested when he was told to do so, and never strained himself to worsen his injury. Yet, despite all of the agony, the reward had been miniscule.

"Slow and steady wins the race, lad."

The boy scoffed against his father's shirt. "That's a dumb saying."

"It has some truth to it."

"If you're too slow, you always end up behind—that's the truth."

He wouldn't understand Arthur's response at first, but he was glad his father said what he did anyway because he'd needed to hear it—needed it more than he realized.

"No, my boy. The ones who get left behind are those who leap forward without watching their step. Keep your eyes on the road, and you'll be ahead of everyone else, you have my word."

"Yeah, whatever," Alfred huffed, eyes shut as Arthur's shoes tap-tap-tapped their way to the car without a hitch.

* * *

"Mr. K, I don't understand how I got a zero on the essay. It's so unfair! At least I did the assignment!"

Arthur took a careful sip of his steamy tea and looked up at the disgruntled student from behind his oak desk. "Mr. Køhler, I gave you the grade you deserved. Your essay was almost identical to Ms. Arlovskaya's, and I cannot give you credit for someone else's work. Plagiarism is a serious matter, and once you start university, your professors won't be so lenient."

Matias Køhler pushed back the unruly forest of hair on his head and groaned. "If my mom sees this, she's going to _kill_ me. Please, Mr. K, I can't show her this kind of grade. I can't hide it from her either—she's the type of woman who knows everything that goes on in her house."

Arthur organized his attendance sheets, and shot the boy a disappointed frown. "I've already lectured Ms. Arlovskaya on this matter, and since I don't make it a habit of mine to be a miserable and unforgiving teacher, I'm going to give you another chance. I want you to submit another essay to me by the end of tomorrow—citations and all. It should be proofread and as close to perfect as humanly possible. I mean it when I say it had better be flawless and pristine. If you do that, you'll have proven that you deserve a higher score, and we'll put the past behind us."

"Oh, my God, Mr. Kirkland," Matias breathed a loud sigh of relief and regained the color in his cheeks. "You are the best. I swear it'll be good. I'm on it."

"Mhmm… Now, go on before I change my mind. You have a lot of work ahead of you. Oh, and I'll be able to tell if you copied someone else's paper again… I have my ways. Good day."

"See ya, Mr. Kirkland. Stay snazzy! I won't let you down!"

Arthur clicked his tongue and said, "Don't worry about impressing me. Take pride in yourself for doing your own work."

They were allowed their fair share of mistakes, as long as they learned from them. That, of course, was more valuable to Arthur than any essay. There would come a time in his students' lives when they wouldn't be able to hide behind feeble excuses. There wouldn't be room for a reset to try again—they'd just have to face their demons.

So, Arthur gave them swords and stepped back.

The rest wasn't up to him.

* * *

"Did we remember to leave the Vargas brothers a list with the boys' allergies?"

"Yes. You gave them two extra copies."

"How about Matthew's stuffed polar bear? Did he take him along? You know how he gets when he leaves it at home."

Francis puckered his lips and blew an air kiss at his husband as they approached the main entrance of the hospital. "Yes, he brought it with him, _mon chou_. Now, why don't you try to relax? You're so worked up over this."

Ever since they'd left the house earlier that morning, Arthur had been coming up with ways to delay his procedure. He fretted over the twins for an extra hour and vacuumed twice to 'make sure he didn't miss a spot', but Francis didn't let him get away with the scheme. He'd dragged him to the car while the man insisted he check to see if he locked the front door again because one could never be too safe.

And somehow, the magnificent forces of the universe finally sent them off to the hospital. They were punctual, and Francis took it upon himself to sign Arthur in, a delighted and encouraging smile resting on his mouth. Within an hour, Arthur was in bed and clad in a muted turquoise gown, looking as though he could rip Francis's head off with his bare hands.

"It's going to be fine," Francis repeated like a broken record. " _Relax_."

Arthur balled his hands into fists and stared at the fluorescent lights above his bed until his eyes burned. "I am relaxed. Can't you tell?"

"The nurse took your blood pressure and said you're as tense as a puppy during a thunderstorm. Shut your eyes and think of a happy place."

"If you tell me to relax one more time, I swear I'll—"

"Shhh… You promised you'd be on your best behavior."

"I promised no such thing! Get out! I don't want you here any longer!"

Francis chuckled and squeezed Arthur's hand. "You don't mean it. Don't be afraid. The doctors know what they're doing, and you're going to be well taken care of."

Thankfully, the nurse returned shortly afterward with a moderate dose of Valium, and the effect it had on the man's mood was awe-inspiring. Whereas Arthur had been ready to heavily mutilate Francis just minutes prior, he later slowed his breathing and blinked against the calming warmth running through his veins. His eyelids drooped, he uncurled his fists, and he turned to Francis in defeat, far too tired to care what was being done to him anymore.

"Feeling better?" Francis asked with a breezy laugh, teasing the ends of Arthur's hair with his fingers. "You're… what's the word I'm looking for? Ah, yes… You are stoned. Completely baked. Tasting the sky, _non_?"

The previously irate Englishman had a slack smirk plastered to his mouth, and he seemed to find the pattern of dots on his gown very intriguing. "What?"

"The procedure will start soon. You're nice and relaxed for the staff now. Look at you—wouldn't hurt a fly anymore, would you?"

"You… Stay with me?"

"I'll be waiting here as soon as it's all over. You won't even notice I'm gone," Francis soothed, deciphering the fragmented sentences. "Listen to what the doctor says, and everything will be okay. I'll have food for you when they bring you back. I know you haven't been able to eat for a while."

"Not hungry…"

"You will be later."

"I hate you."

Francis laughed and blew a raspberry. Even while in a drugged state, Arthur squeezed in a few jibes. Nothing could squash the dark humor entrenched somewhere between the lobes of his mind.

"I'm aware."

They made small talk after that. Francis recounted another one of his grand adventures with Raivis, and Arthur listened as best he could while chasing away the temptation to sleep. Aside from the occasional murmurs and plodding footsteps outside of the room, it was quiet. A cardiac monitor flickered behind the bed, the IV bag with Arthur's Valium dripped in time with the changing seconds, and Francis prayed for the right words to come to him at the right moment at least once. There had to be something he could say to rid Arthur of his anxiety. He was an awful spouse for pulling up his fishing net of words without a single catch.

And by the time he could try again, the pulmonologist had come in with a pearly white smile. If Francis hadn't known any better, he would've thought Arthur was being treated to free lunch and tea.

"Are we ready, Mr. Kirkland?"

His husband must've been at least fractionally sober because he drew his brows into a fuzzy line and said in a perfectly clear voice, "No."

"Hmm. I think you're as ready as ever," the doctor replied without losing his cheer. "Won't be as bad as you imagine it'll be, promise."

Truth be told, it really wasn't _that_ bad, but Arthur complained to Francis and reminded him he was a sadistic frog anyway. Arthur couldn't remember everything, but he did recall lying on his stomach as something cold touched his back, followed by the doctor telling him to hold his breath. Despite the numbing medication, he still felt the sharp sting of a needle breaking through his skin, and he blamed Francis all over again, tying together a chain of colorful curses in his mind. Damn Francis for making him go to the clinic in the first place. Damn Francis for taking his cigarettes. Damn everything because it hurt, even if only for a few minutes.

Then, he earned himself a chest x-ray and was instructed to lie flat for two hours before being sent back to the room he'd started in. The medication hadn't fully worn off yet, and the world was soft around the edges. He sighed into his pillow and shivered when a hand came into contact with the dressing wrapped around his torso.

"Welcome back," Francis said, smiling that taunting smile of his. "How was it?"

"Horrible," Arthur replied, mostly because he was still unhappy. Nonetheless, he struck out an arm and grabbed Francis's hand, holding it tight. "I don't just hate you. I loathe you."

"You can loathe me as much as you like, if you promise to start treating your smoking habit. You don't want another scare like this, do you?"

"Don't lecture me."

Francis recycled the statement Arthur often used on the twins. He hoped he'd never have to see Arthur in a hospital bed again—neither of them could stand it. "I do it because I care."

"You _care_? My God… I must be dreaming."

"I wonder if the doctor can do something about your wisecracking."

"Oh, if only," Arthur quipped, wiping the smirk off of his face only when Francis seemed genuinely upset.

The Frenchman smoothed out the blanket Arthur had been given to keep warm and brought Arthur's hand to his heart. "When will we know the results?"

"When the pathologist looks at whatever they took from my lung. He's going to take his time, I'll bet."

"You… You should talk to Alfred. Spend some time with him when you've recovered."

Arthur rubbed the sore spot underneath his bandages until Francis whacked his fingers away from the injury and told him to lie still. "Is something wrong? I know he's been having a hard time at school, but I thought things were getting better. I helped him with his history paper on the Civil War, and he said he was doing well in class."

"It's nothing like that. I just… I think you two would be able to help each other," Francis clarified, eyes twinkling in a way that made Arthur nervous. "If you can get him to race again, I'm sure he'll be able to get you to quit smoking. You'll be able to push one another. It's the perfect bargain."

Arthur glared at his husband from the bed. The expression lacked its intimidating effect, considering he was prone and had to crane his neck at an odd angle just to look at the other man. "As if Alfred will listen to me."

"Of course he will. You're his father. Have you seen how that boy admires you? If you challenge him to do something, he'll do it without question."

"And how is this supposed to stop me from smoking?"

"It's simple. Alfred has you wrapped around his finger. If he pouts and chides you for reaching for a cigarette, you'll feel ashamed of yourself, and a little shame is all you need," Francis snickered as Arthur flushed.

"I won't fall for that. Unlike you, I set strict boundaries for my children, and—"

"Do I have to remind you of the many times Alfred persuaded you into buying him toys he didn't need. Remember the remote-controlled race car? How about the stuffed whale that was a meter in length and collected dust on the bedroom floor? Then there was the miniature gumball machine, and the—"

Arthur snarled something foul and sucked in a gasp as though he'd scalded his tongue. "Okay, you've made your point."

Francis would've been more than happy to continue the discussion at great length and detail, but Arthur's doctor interrupted his rant, and both men fell silent at once.

"I have wonderful news. Mr. Kirkland, you've been blessed with stunning fortune."

Benign. Arthur never thought he could love a word as much as he did then. One in three individuals in his position ended up with lung cancer, but he'd been part of the lucky two who didn't. Though his lungs were performing at the rate of someone ten years his senior, he was still okay. For now, anyway. The doctor gave him a long-winded oration on the dangers facing him if he continued smoking a pack a day, but Arthur had heard the speech before, and it didn't resonate with him like it should have.

Yet, something in him had changed. Fear played profound tricks on the mind, and two days later, Francis found Arthur traipsing his way to the front door with Alfred.

They were going to the track.

* * *

"This is so dumb. I can't do stuff like this anymore, and you know it."

"Who says? Don't you dare give up on your dreams, understand? Your dreams separate you from everyone else, and nothing can take them away—not even an injured leg. Every athlete gets hurt, and though this is your first time, it won't be your last," Arthur told the boy, fixing his scarf so that it was snug. He was going to teach the child a lesson he wouldn't soon forget.

Alfred stepped away from his father's reach and shook his head. He wanted to go home. He hadn't expected Arthur to drag him here. He wasn't ready. "I can't race."

"Yes, you can," Arthur insisted, walking him onto the track. "Close your eyes. Can you hear the cheering?"

Alfred's eyelids fluttered, and he lowered his head with a frown. "We're all alone."

"Are you certain?"

If he thought about it long and hard, Alfred could imagine the whistle going off, and the rumble of people standing up on the bleachers. They had cheered for him once, but those days were over. He was poor, sick Alfred. Terribly unfortunate Alfred.

He opened his eyes when Arthur's coat brushed against his, and suddenly, his father was jogging ahead of him with a quirky smile twisting his lips. "Perfect day for a run!"

Alfred could feel his jaw unhinge as it fell open against the icy air. He'd never seen his father run in his entire life. It was ungentlemanly, uncouth, and indecent in every way. Sure, Arthur walked briskly when in a rush, but he'd never broken out into a full jog. Not in front of Alfred, at least.

He stood dumbfounded for a good moment, unsure of how to react to his father's strange behavior. He thought of calling Papa for help, but Arthur had already started his second lap with no sign of giving up.

Alfred wrinkled his nose and ventured a few footfalls, limping his way forward. Useless… Arthur would be on his twelfth lap before Alfred would even manage to walk through one.

And sure enough, Arthur soon caught up to him once more. He slowed his pace and put a hand on Alfred's forearm. "Just one sprint, Alfred. You can do it. I know you can."

Dad was begging—he could hear it in his voice. He wanted his Alfred. He wanted loud, obnoxious, quick-footed, cheeky Alfred.

"You can do it."

He moved without realizing it, and for about three seconds, he ran. Euphoria swelled in his heart, and he cried tears of joy, sobbing and laughing and sobbing again as he matched Arthur's speed. He'd never felt such love eking out of his heart—such pure happiness. The air tasted sweet on his mouth, and the tremors in his leg propelled him.

But then, his knee remembered to be useless again, and he pitched forward with momentum like a domino, colliding with the ground.

His face slick with tears, Alfred flipped himself onto his back and watched the gray sky above, chest aching with twenty thousand feelings. He'd done it. He'd remembered what it was like to run.

"I told you," Arthur murmured against his hair, pulling him into a sitting position. "It's not over, Alfred. If you want to run, then run. Run and run until your legs can't carry you, my boy."

Alfred hid his head in the front of the man's coat, terrified by his own strength. He didn't think his muscles even remembered how to move aside from a slow shuffle. "What if I don't have what it takes?"

Arthur scoffed and settled a kiss onto the boy's forehead. "After that display? Of course you have what it takes. We're going to train together. We're going to have you racing by April if it's the last thing I do."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

Carefully, the pair got to their feet, and Arthur dug around in his pocket, producing a cigarette. He poised the flame from his lighter at the tip, pretending not to see the glower on Alfred's face.

"Papa said you're going to be very sick if you keep smoking."

"Papa should worry about his own health," Arthur huffed, disgusted by how weak his arguments were sounding lately.

Alfred reached up a hand and took the cigarette away, blue eyes glittering with worry. "I don't want you to get sick."

"Don't do that, you're going to burn yourself," his father tutted, stealing the cigarette back. "No one is going to be sick anytime soon."

Alfred nibbled on his lip and watched Arthur take a drag. "Papa also said I should give you a… a…"

"Yes?"

The boy wrinkled his nose as he thought of the word Papa had used. "I should give you an ultimate-tum."

"I think you mean 'ultimatum'."

"Yeah, that!"

Arthur sighed and clenched the cigarette with his teeth, hooked on the way the nicotine dried up all of his stress. He had the decency to feel a little uncomfortable as Alfred watched him distastefully. "And why would he say such a thing?"

"He told me I can't go on walks with you unless you promise not to smoke as much. You can't smoke until we get home."

"Now he's getting you involved in this? Alfred, poppet, you're just a child, so you don't need to be thinking about these sorts of issues."

"But I don't want you to be sick again!"

"Alfred, love. I'm not going to—"

"Don't lie! Papa said you don't listen to anyone! You care about your cigarettes more than your children."

Arthur pursed his lips and scowled. Francis fed the boy those words. A child couldn't come up with remarks like those on his own. How could Francis accuse him of not loving and caring for his children? It was uncalled for.

"We're done here," Arthur decided before storming off toward the car.

Alfred struggled to keep up, and when he reached the Chevy, he gave Arthur the most baleful look he could manage. "I don't want to go on walks with you. You can't make me."

Arthur started acting strange again. He did the second thing Alfred rarely saw him do.

He banged a fist against the steering wheel and cried.

* * *

"How are the kids doing?"

"Well, Mathieu still hasn't robbed the Federal Reserve, so I think they're going to be okay," Francis informed his partner, reclining his seat and yawning. Each day he spent in the patrol car made the road more bearable, and though the man wouldn't take the wheel even in his wildest dreams, he was able to sit alongside his faithful driver without falling into a state of panic. "Thank you for asking."

"Yeah, of course. Matthew's a cute kid. I don't want to see him making stupid mistakes," Raivis said. "If you ever need Uncle Raivis to discipline them, I'll be ready. We'll take the rascals down to the station, and they won't do anything bad ever again. They'll be scarred for life."

Francis chuckled and waved off the help. "Stay away from my children."

"Ah, you're one of those protective dads. I get it."

"No, I leave that mainly to Arthur. Are you still pursuing the love interest you told me about?"

Raivis bounced in the driver's seat, reminded of his excitement. "Iryna? Oh, yeah. I'm taking her out for coffee tomorrow. I've been practicing some cheesy jokes to break the ice. Ladies like a good sense of humor."

Francis bit down his huge grin and let the young man continue. "What jokes?"

"So, one of them goes like this… What do you call a fake noodle?"

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

"An impasta!" Raivis finished with a wink, exuberance peaking. "I've got a cop joke ready too. What did the policeman say to his belly button?"

"Do I really have to know?"

"You're under a vest!"

Francis covered his ears with his hands and groaned. "No more, please."

"Okay, just one more! Promise! I'm not sure if this one should make the final cut."

"Fine."

"What do you call a big pile of kittens? A meowntain."

"Scratch that one off the list."

Raivis exploded with laughter, holding a hand over his diaphragm just to make sure he stayed intact. "Haha! Scratch, get it? Because cats scratch things…"

Francis hated himself for smiling.

"If you get a second date with this woman, I will pray for her."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the reviews, guys! I read every single one of them, and the support is unbelievable. Now, enjoy the chapter! :D

* * *

He'd never noticed how desolate their house could be from the outside.

The animated buzz of the twins chattering about something spectacular that happened at school never reached the lawn. He couldn't hear Arthur's scolding or the boom of the television that normally initiated his migraines.

The eerie silence made him an outsider, as though he'd been looking in on someone's sweet family like a nuisance. The cut grass, the paint-chipped fence, the sloped driveway—it'd all been claimed since before he'd arrived.

He assumed Arthur would join him any minute for a final smoke to end the day, but the quietude dragged on. He'd have to invite himself in.

He took his time unlocking the door, afraid to wake the boys because they had school in the morning. He combed his shoes over the mat, inched the heavy, wooden door open, and hung his coat on its rack.

Still no sign of Arthur.

A flash of fear made him think Arthur might've taken ill again, but the man seemed fine earlier that morning, and Francis would've noticed any change in his behavior. However, it occurred to him that _something_ was wrong. He just couldn't put his finger on it yet.

He deposited his shoes in the foyer and strode up the stairs, checking in on the sleeping twins first. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. Matthew was suffocating his bear against his chest, and Alfred's lips were parted halfway in an "o" shape, like he'd been trying to speak, but slumber fetched him a moment too soon.

They were so full of what Francis could only call enamor, and he wondered when he'd stopped seeing the beauty in life that he often took for granted. When had he become too old to see the world with constant excitement for the future? When had he grown tired of the flowers in the garden, the strollers in the park, the trees, the birds, and the new life all around? When had he forgotten to notice them?

He worried he'd someday stand outside of the house and lose the enamor in his heart once and for all. When would he look at his house and his husband with a sense of brooding and stop understanding the love they polished on the shelf? When would he grow tired of him like the flowers, the birds, and the trees? What would happen then?

He returned to the opposite bedroom and found Arthur reading, just as always.

He turned a page in the novel with a flick of his thumb and kept his eyes planted to the words in front of him, barely acknowledging Francis's entrance.

Suddenly, it was very clear what was wrong. Arthur was upset, and Francis had been the cause of his grief.

"Arthur? Good evening to you too," Francis said after a minute, changing out of his uniform. "This cold front doesn't seem to be letting up."

Arthur knew he wasn't just talking about the weather. When the twins were younger, every remark they made was laced with a double meaning meant for adults only.

Francis slid onto his side of the bed and peeked at the book Arthur was reading. It was another assignment for his English class. "You know, it's common courtesy to let someone know why you're angry with them before giving them the silent treatment."

"You don't deserve an explanation," Arthur snapped, flipping to the next page and revealing the many notes he'd taken in the margins.

"I have a right to face my accuser, don't I? This family court honors due process."

"You've turned my own children against me."

Francis sat up and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "How so?"

Arthur shrugged out of the touch. "Why did my son tell me I love my cigarettes more than my children? I can't imagine who he might've been parroting. Perhaps it was the same man who taught him what an ultimatum is. A better word for it would be blackmail."

Oh, he was in for it.

Francis scratched his chin and frowned. "I was irritated. I said some things in front Alfred that I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry."

"Well, thank goodness you're sorry," Arthur spat and lunged himself out of the bed. "Sorry fixes everything, doesn't it? Sorry fixes the fact that Alfred thinks I love my addiction more than him."

"Maybe he has a point," Francis muttered, but then immediately regretted the retort. The look in Arthur's eyes was frightening even to him.

"Y-You… You damned bastard of a frog! My children are above everything else. I've treated them with all of the love I have to offer, and then you come along and accuse me of not caring?"

"It's hard to remember when you're always 'stepping out'."

Arthur threw his book on the floor. "Funny, coming from the person who doesn't come home from work until midnight."

"Don't hold that against me. I'm trying to provide for us so that we can live a comfortable life."

"And I'm not doing that?"

Francis curled his toes into the mattress and braced himself. "I'm not sure because half of your income goes toward buying those cigarettes."

Arthur opened his mouth to shout something profane at him, but a knock on the bedroom door shook both men out of their outrage.

"Matthew, love. What are you doing up at this time?"

The boy scampered across the threshold and let his eyes fall to the abandoned book on the carpet. "I heard shouting. Are you guys fighting?"

Both men exchanged a look, each placing the blame on the other.

"No, my boy. We were having a discussion. We didn't mean to wake you."

Matthew didn't seem convinced, so he clutched his bear tight and stared at Francis intently from across the room. "Papa? Is everything okay?"

"Of course, _mon lapin_. Go back to bed. You have a busy day tomorrow."

"Come," Arthur whispered, leading the boy away. He forced a gentle smile. "Let's get you back to your room."

Matthew agreed and let himself be ushered across the hall. When he was under the covers once more, he blinked at Arthur as though he'd never had the chance to really look at him. "I know you love us, Dad."

The man straightened himself and nodded, shoulders tensed. "Close your eyes, now."

* * *

Francis slept on the couch.

After a night spent in purgatory, he woke up with the sun and went about making breakfast. He had the day off, and it'd be nice to spend some time with the boys, even if Arthur still had a grudge against him. They'd cool off, plaster a smile on for the twins, and wait until someone cracked. More often than not, Francis gave up the fight first.

"Papa?"

"Good morning, Mathieu. How did you sleep?"

Matthew followed him into the kitchen and pulled up his sagging pajama bottoms as he walked. "Okay. Can I help make pancakes?"

It'd been a while since they'd cooked together, so Francis didn't even think of refusing. "Be my guest. Let's try not to get flour all over the table again."

"I'll be careful."

Francis prepared the eggs, milk, and oil in a bowl, content with falling back into what had once been a daily routine for the two of them. "Are you excited for school?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Papa, nobody _likes_ school. We just go 'cause we have to. Teachers are always telling you what to do, you have to take tests almost every day, and there's a lot of drama," Matthew lamented, mixing the ingredients together until they achieved a decent consistency for the batter.

Francis preheated the skillet and hummed in the half-hearted manner of understanding that all parents mastered at some point. "You're looking at it from the wrong perspective, _mon chou_. All of your teachers are people too, and sometimes even they don't like school."

"Like Dad?"

The man sighed and poured some of the batter onto the skillet. " _Oui_ , like your father. Do you think they enjoy giving you all of those ridiculous tests? District tests, state tests, national tests… They can't stand it either. It's the system that's at fault. We live in uninspiring times, at least where education is concerned."

If Matthew didn't catch on to everything Francis was saying, he didn't let himself show it.

"But do you know what keeps us going?"

Matthew gave it some thought and shook his head. "What?"

"Children like yourself," Francis murmured with a soft smile before flipping a pancake over. "We want to share knowledge with you so that you can make the world a better place to live in. We need you to solve the problems of the future. We believe that when you grow up, you'll inherit this world from us and change it."

Matthew frowned as a pancake landed on his plate. "Doing that is too hard."

"Nothing is easy," Francis said as he drizzled maple syrup over the boy's breakfast. They had enough pancakes to feed the entire block. "Where are our two sleeping beauties? Their breakfast is waiting."

The pair ate without the other half of the family for five minutes until a banging noise came from the stairs, accompanied by shouts of protest.

Matthew rolled his eyes. "That's them."

Francis put down his fork and went to investigate, carefully edging his way into the war-zone.

"Let me go! I don't want your help!" Alfred howled, fighting off the hands around his waist. He kicked his feet and twisted his torso to free himself. "I can do it!"

Setting his dislike of Francis off to the side for a moment, Arthur shot the man a helpless look from the top of the stairs. "He took a little stumble on the steps."

" _Mon dieu_ … Are you all right, Alfred?"

"I'm fine!"

Arthur squeezed the boy's upper arm and tried to guide him down to safe ground once more. "Come, let's get you sitting down. We have to check you over for scrapes."

"No, I already told you! I don't want your help!"

"Why not?"

"Because you never let me help you!" Alfred exclaimed, using up all of his breath and strength. He lifted his eyes to Arthur's green ones, amazed by the words that had come out of his own mouth. He hadn't even known he'd been hoarding them.

It shut Arthur up for a while, and he backed away, watching as Alfred straggled down the last steps. When he reached the hardwood floor, Francis embraced him by the shoulders and told him to head into the kitchen, where Matthew would serve him his portion of fluffy pancakes topped with whipped cream and syrup. No matter how emotionally distraught the child was, he couldn't turn down food.

"You need to fix this," Francis whispered once Alfred was gone.

Arthur scowled and said, "No, _we_ need to fix this. There's plenty you can talk about with him. Perhaps you can start by apologizing for planting ridiculous thoughts in his mind."

"You have to talk to him first. Then, we'll have a family meeting, so all of us can get everything off of our chests."

The man hated taking advice from Francis, but he knew he was partially right. Whenever something important was on the line, Arthur always talked to Alfred in private. He lived for their mid-day conversations, and even when Alfred complained that he was too strict or mean or uptight, Arthur could always feel the affection between them, and it was an affection that they saved only for each other. They enjoyed the company. Arthur would never understand how anyone in their right mind could look at him with such unconditional adoration the way Alfred did.

From diapers, to riding bikes, and all the way to parent-teacher conferences, Arthur and Alfred always learned best from one another. They were overdue for an infamous heart-to-heart.

As soon as he came home from teaching his classes, Arthur kidnapped Alfred from his bedroom, seized the plastic sled from the storage closet, and told Francis not to expect their return for at least two hours.

"But Dad, I don't feel like going to the park."

"We both know that's a lie. If your father and I weren't around, you'd be living outdoors."

"I'm still mad at you."

Arthur dragged the sled behind them as they walked, awfully weary. "I know, and you have every right to ignore me. I've been a terrible father as of late."

Upon hearing the self-deprecation in Arthur's tone, Alfred's walls crumbled. He was always quick to forgive and forget. "Don't say stuff like that. You're a good dad."

"No, a good father would've acknowledged his faults. He wouldn't have lost his temper the way I did, and he would have taken your concerns seriously," Arthur continued, ruffling the boy's hair. "I'm sorry, Alfred. You're old enough now for us to discuss sensitive topics such as this, so I won't skirt around the issue anymore. Addiction is very serious, and it plays tricks on the mind. It makes you do things you wouldn't normally do, and it makes you say things without thinking first."

"What kinds of things?"

Arthur sighed and watched his breath warm the winter air. "Things like 'stepping outside' every thirty minutes, or losing interest in your health. I do those things, but it's not really me that's doing them. Do you understand?"

Alfred nibbled his lip and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. "Yeah, kinda."

"That doesn't mean, however, that I don't care about you. You, your brother, and Papa are always my top priority. The cigarettes—they're just a disgusting habit I picked up before I knew what it was like to love someone. They don't mean anything, and I've tried to stop many times, Alfred, but it isn't easy."

They entered the park wordlessly, eyes roving around the glistening snow coating the grass and trees.

"Hey, remember what you always tell me?"

Arthur cocked a brow and waited for an explanation. His brain was screaming at him for a smoke, but he refused the cravings.

"You say it's okay if I fail, as long as I try. You have to try, Dad."

He had to be more careful with the words he said. Somehow, he always ended up on the receiving side of his own advice.

"You're absolutely right, love. I'll try."

"Promise?"

"I promise," Arthur assured, crossing his fingers behind his back. "Zip up your coat all the way. It's freezing out."

"I'll be fine! I'm not a baby."

"I didn't say you were."

Alfred bounded his way over toward the nearest hill and began the arduous climb. "Why didn't Papa and Mattie come sledding with us?"

"I thought we should talk one-to-one," Arthur replied, yanking the sled up the mini-mountain of snow. "There's actually something else I wanted to discuss with you."

"Huh? Am I in trouble?"

Arthur couldn't hide the smirk on his face. Alfred's reaction showed he had gotten himself into mischief far too many times. Lectures were nothing out of the ordinary for him. "No, lad. You're not in any trouble for now. I've just been brainstorming ways for you to exercise, and there are opening spots on a football team in the spring. Toris suggested it."

"Football? You hate football. You said I wasn't allowed to play it because I'd get a concussion and die."

"Not that football," Arthur said, curling up his lip in disgust. "I meant soccer."

"Oh," Alfred glowered as they reached the top of the hill. "I don't even know how to play soccer that well."

"A little practice, and you'll be a well-seasoned player. Try-outs are during the first week of March."

"That's less than a month from now. I can't do it."

Arthur plopped the sled down and suffered through the words that he was about to say. "Remember what Papa said about that ultimatum? Well, if you try-out for the team, then I'll stop smoking."

It wasn't a fair deal, and Alfred knew it, but he couldn't resist the idea of Arthur abandoning his cigarettes for good.

"All right… I'll do it."

"I have your word?"

"Yeah, but you havta do what you say too," Alfred reminded before plunking into the sled. "Come on, Dad. The snow will melt if you stand there forever."

Arthur made a move to push Alfred down the snowy decline, but the boy threw up his hands in complaint.

"Aren't you coming with me?"

Arthur looked at the boy and then the hill. "I think I'm a tad too old for that kind of winter fun, Alfred. I'd probably end up with a few fractures."

Alfred aimed a teasing smile at him and tossed his head back to meet his eyes. "You're not old. You're a chicken."

He would _not_ let himself be provoked by a child. He was above that, surely.

"Bawk, bawk, bawk. I bet Papa would sled with me."

 _God damn it!_

"Move over," Arthur grumbled, scooting behind Alfred in the plastic deathtrap. "Just this once."

"Yay!"

When they were snugly pressed up against one another and not in any danger of tipping over, Alfred readied them for the launch.

"Five! Four! Three!"

Arthur twined his arms around Alfred's waist and lowered his head. He couldn't watch.

"Two! One! Lift-off!"

The man's stomach did a somersault, and they glided down the hill with a horrifying speed. While he feared for his life, Alfred laughed against the icy breeze, giving a new definition to the word 'joyful'.

A tree broke their descent near the bottom, and the two stumbled to their feet, brushing the snow off of their bodies.

"Never again," Arthur rasped, leaning on the tree to rest his pounding heart.

"That was AWESOME. We have to go again," Alfred shrilled, scoping out the next hill, which was twice the size of the first.

"I'll pass. You go on."

"Aww, okay… Thanks, Dad. You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did."

Alfred coiled his hands around Arthur's arm and grinned, happy to have this time alone with his father. "I don't care about the stuff you said before. You're a good dad."

* * *

"Mathieu, why are you holding that textbook three feet away from your eyes?"

The boy hastily tucked the book against his chest and furrowed. "What?"

"You know you can't hide things from me, _mon chou_."

"I'm not hiding anything!" Matthew insisted a second too quickly.

"Hmm…"

"Don't do that."

Francis frowned. "Don't do what?"

"Whenever you make that noise, it always means that you think I did something wrong," Matthew griped, folding his legs underneath him as he sat on Papa and Daddy's bed. He'd temporarily moved in while Arthur and Alfred were away.

"I do?"

" _Oui_."

Francis pried the book out of Matthew's hands and gave him a look that made the boy squirm. "Are you having trouble seeing, Mathieu?"

"Uhmm, no."

"We'll take you for an eye exam to make sure. It's been a while since you and Alfred had your eyesight checked."

Matthew let out a groan. "Papa, please. I don't want glasses."

"Why not? Do you want to keep squinting?"

"I wouldn't be me anymore… I'd just be made fun of even more."

Francis clicked his tongue and brushed the twin's fringe away from his forehead. "Listen to me, Mathieu. Don't listen to what other people say. You are a wonderful boy, and putting on a pair of glasses won't change that. I'm sure half of the children in your school wear glasses. It'll be fine. Now, don't tell your father I said this, but he wears glasses for reading sometimes as well."

"Really? I've never seen—"

"That's because he thinks his pride is more important than the health of his eyes. He doesn't need them often, but I've seen him fill out tax returns, and when serious paperwork is on the line, he wears the frames that he keeps hidden in the bottom of his sock drawer," Francis revealed with a chuckle, and, to prove his point, he opened his husband's sock drawer and flaunted the small leather case concealed within for a moment before sneaking them back into their place. "So, don't worry."

But the transition wasn't as smooth as they would've wanted it to be. When Matthew was declared farsighted a week later, he put on his new glasses and stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, wondering if he'd ever feel like himself again. He had a new identity now, and even though the frames were only necessary for reading, Matthew still struggled to wear them. They didn't feel right. It was as though someone had slapped a new body part onto his face without his consent.

Surprisingly enough, Alfred dealt with the news with far more enthusiasm than his brother. On the other end of the ocular spectrum, the boy was nearsighted and everything beyond five feet of him became a fuzzy outline. He wore his glasses like they were a godsend. He felt sophisticated. He felt less like a child and more like a man.

And Matthew didn't get it. How could Alfred so easily accept his identity being changed? His twin wore his glasses twenty-four/seven, and yet, he never complained about their constant presence. He'd taken to them like a fish does to water.

Papa and Daddy expected Matthew to do the same. They didn't understand why it was such a problem, but Matthew had learned that his parents didn't always know everything. They couldn't help him because they didn't understand the fussing. They didn't know what it was like to change something that should always stay the same.

They didn't know how to hold on to the things you care about.

* * *

"The roads are a huge hodgepodge today, Midnight Dolphin. We've got our work cut out for us."

"I wish you'd stop with the nicknames—and to think I was just starting to get used to having you around."

Raivis chugged the coffee they'd bought to warm themselves up and hissed when he burnt his tongue. "Firstly, they aren't 'nicknames'. This isn't some game, Francis. They're codenames. It's a big difference."

"Forgive me when I say we'd be fine without them."

"If you don't like your codename, it's subject to change," Raivis appeased, scratching at the Styrofoam on his cup. "You can be Swagmeister instead. Whatever works for you, but the list has to be approved by both parties at stake here… Hey, I never told you how my date went."

Francis talked through the sleepiness settled in his bones. "Did the poor girl make it through?"

"I told you girls can't resist law enforcement," Raivis bragged, looking far too proud of himself. "I'm seeing her again next week. We'll have a movie night, and she'll pick a chick flick. Should be cool… Look to the right. There's a guy stumbling around."

Alert once more, Francis feasted his eyes on the spectacle across the street. He seemed to be trespassing on someone's property. "He's drunk."

"Let's go."

Raivis hopped out of the car first and moseyed over to the impaired man, trying not to startle him. "Sir? Can we chat for a sec? Do you live here?"

The man in question considered the house he was standing in front of and grunted in response.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Leave me alone! I-I'm not doing anything!"

The outburst took them all by surprise, but Raivis maintained his steady smile. "Come on, sir. Let's not disturb anyone, okay? Where do you live?"

"Raivis, don't get too close. He's not—"

"I've got this, Bad Cop. Don't worry. Sir, we just want to—"

"Raivis, he's got a knife!"

Before the young man could react, a sharp pain twisted in his gut, and he let out a strangled gasp. Within seconds, hot blood stained his shirt, and he fell backward into a fire hydrant, unable to balance his own weight.

Francis pinned the drunken man to the cement and took his knife. Then, he clicked a pair of handcuffs around his wrists, sweating from the scuffle. He was on his walkie-talkie in seconds, calling for help.

"Francis…" Raivis managed to mumble, now collapsed in a heap on the ground.

"What do you mean there's a wait for an ambulance? They can't all be stuck in the snow!" Francis shouted to whoever he had contacted. "I can't wait that long! _Merde_."

Just as the world was flickering to black, two arms heaved Raivis up and situated him into the patrol car.

"Keep your hand pressed on the wound," Francis instructed, reclining the passenger's seat for the rookie to rest. The drunken man was now sprawled against the backseats with nowhere to go, and he muttered nonsensical phrases to himself over and over.

Raivis winced at the pain, but otherwise stayed eerily calm. "Tell Iryna that I'm sorry I won't make it for our next date."

"You'll be just fine by then," Francis reasoned with him before sliding into the driver's seat. "Keep talking to me, Raivis. Stay awake."

"W-When's the ambulance coming?"

"Only God knows. The hospital is about twelve blocks from here. I can drive you myself as long as we stick to the main road."

"D-Drive? You're driving?"

Francis clenched his teeth and started the engine, ignoring the horror rising in his heart. "Yes, I'm driving. Everything's okay. You'll have a great story to tell Iryna."

The drunken man moaned.

"If you need to vomit, open the window," Francis warned, switching on the car's siren before speeding down the asphalt. "How are you doing, Raivis?"

The young man gawked at him and suppressed the urge to double over in pain. "I'm great… It's not like I've been stabbed or anything!"

"We're almost there."

"I'm glad it took me potentially getting killed for you to drive. I did something productive."

"Oh, shut up," Francis growled, ignoring any and all traffic regulations. He tried to stay in control of the situation with patience and gentle reassurances, but Raivis was beginning to grow hysterical.

"I'm clammy… I'm going into shock!"

"Calm down!"

The drunken man moaned again.

"Could you shut up back there? You're not the one bleeding all over the car!" Raivis cried out, his breathing erratic.

Francis finally stopped the car and circled around to help Raivis onto his feet. "We're right in front of the Emergency Room. Just a few steps, okay?"

"Make sure my killer doesn't get away."

"I locked the doors. He's too disoriented to run anyway."

"Yeah, but not disoriented enough to s-stab me."

"Shhh," Francis soothed, guiding him through the double doors and bright lights. A team of doctors and nurses had already been waiting for them, and it occurred to Raivis that his partner had the foresight to inform the medical staff beforehand.

Raivis was immediately ushered onto a stretcher, and he leered at Francis with glazed eyes. "Don't you dare leave me here alone!"

"I won't. I just need to make sure someone picks up our friend and transports him to the station."

"Stay. Please, stay!"

Francis squeezed the rookie's shoulder and nodded. "I'm here. I won't leave."

"Oh, God, Francis… I don't want it to end like this."

He felt bad for laughing, but he couldn't stop himself. "You're going to live. It's no worse than a paper-cut. I've seen much worse. A bandage or two, and it'll be better in the morning."

Raivis mimicked the older man's cheeky grin and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

It was nice to have a friend.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** We're marching on with this story, despite the summer heat! I have a lot planned, not to mention I'm fleshing out some ideas for a piece that's in the works. As always, enjoy and feel free to leave a review. :D

* * *

"I told you it would be better in the morning."

Raivis moaned and shrugged his shoulders out of the crisp bedsheets, feeling itchy and uncomfortably warm all over. The thick padding of bandages over his abdomen were mushy with antibiotic creams and goo, and he wanted nothing more than for Francis to smother him with a pillow. The events of the past few hours were foggy as his mind fought through the lethargy of painkillers in his system.

"What time is it?" he asked, parched and sticky as if he'd been outside too long on a humid day.

Francis stayed seated in a chair by the rookie's bedside and checked his watch. "Six in the morning."

"When did I get stabbed?"

"Around eleven."

"Crap. You've been here all night?"

"You were the one who begged me to stay," Francis reminded before handing him a paper cup with cold water inside. "Drink."

"Don't tell me what to do."

A smile graced Francis's lips. Raivis was sounding a lot like someone he knew. "Fine. I guess you aren't looking forward to getting back on your feet again. It's good news for me, since I'm working on my solo career from now on."

The response was as immediate and desperate as he'd imagined it would be. "Hey! You can't just ditch me like that! We're the dream team, remember? Midnight Dolphin—Swagmeister—I only wanted to—Argh…"

He'd antagonized the boy enough for the time being.

"I'm not going anywhere. I was only kidding," Francis reassured him, pressing a hand onto his chest to keep him still. "You should be discharged soon, as long as you rest. Is there anybody you'd like for me to call? Your parents, siblings, a close friend, etcetera?"

"Nah, you're all I've got, Bad Cop."

"I find that hard to believe. Someone as outgoing as you must get around pretty well."

That was almost a compliment.

Raivis grinned the grin that he often utilized to grind Francis's gears. "Don't let my five hundred friends on Facebook fool you. Seriously though… Thanks."

Francis was about to reply with a sharp comeback, but his phone decided to go off right then and there. "It's Arthur. I told him what happened, and he's been concerned about you."

"Pick it up. I'm sorry for keeping you away from your family. You should go home. You've been here long enough already."

"What's a few more hours now?" Francis said before heading into the hallway to answer the call.

The conversation was short and almost second-nature. Arthur asked him once again if he was at all harmed during the scuffle, to which Francis told him for the umpteenth time that he was quite all right. The man was in full mother-hen mode, and he expressed his sympathies for the rookie officer. Could he get him anything? Flowers? A get-well card? Or—god forbid—a hot meal? Was he comfortable? Should he come down and pay him a visit?

Francis dismissed all of the offers. They were doing just fine. The situation was under control, so Arthur could stop worrying and go back to writing up his lesson plans. He promised his husband he'd be home well before dinner, and when there was nothing left to be said, he returned to Raivis's room with a long sigh.

"He doesn't even worry over _me_ like that," he joked as he situated himself back in the chair. "Are you in any pain? They haven't been stingy with the morphine."

"I'm okay… Tell Arthur I appreciate the concern."

"Oh, I don't want to encourage his doting, but I'll let him know."

"I've never had anyone worry about me like that before," Raivis admitted after a bated breath. "My dad was all about 'tough love' when I was a kid, and I didn't really know my mom well."

Francis frowned and watched the IV drip. "To be honest, I was never very close with my parents either."

"Can't choose your family, right?"

"Mmm… Yes, but I wouldn't have it any other way. If things were different, I wouldn't be the same person anymore."

He'd never seen this side of Raivis—this hint of self-loathing and anger. Perhaps he wasn't as youthful and boyish as he seemed, and Francis considered the thought for a while. Even after he left Raivis in the care of Iryna that afternoon, he couldn't shake the guilt in his stomach for being so hasty to judge the rookie. They were all a little broken inside, but some were just better at hiding it from plain view.

Raivis was back on patrol a week later, only a tad rugged around the edges. He seemed more mature, and though his cheesy humor still remained unshaken, Francis could see the stark shadows around his eyes and heard the gruffness of his voice. He'd seen the realities of the job—the pain and confusion of balancing patience and fury. Patience for their fellow friends and civilians, and fury for the things they did when no one was around to notice.

It was all too easy to lose patience and cling to anger instead. All too easy to pick up a gun and end the problem before it festered—Francis knew this better than anyone, and it made him feel sick.

He'd once complained of the rookie's naïve and misguided ways—the way he revered his job as though he were some sort of hero—but he'd found comfort and light in his innocence. Those days had flown into the past, and Francis almost wanted to catch them by the wings and pull them back. He wanted to be around someone who didn't understand the complexity of things. He wanted to witness blissful ignorance.

Because thinking about things too much just invited the darkness.

* * *

"I'm gonna tell on you!"

"No, you won't."

"Yeah, I will! You can't do this to your own brother! DAD! HELP ME! I'M BEING BURIED ALIVE!"

Matthew snickered and dumped another heap of snow on Alfred's chest. He patted the snow to keep it compact, rendering Alfred's flailing useless.

They'd been lounging outside when Alfred fell asleep against the tree by the driveway, exhausted after another grueling day at school and physical therapy. Needless to say, Matthew took advantage of the perfect time to strike, and he'd started burying his brother's legs and arms in the snow without thinking twice.

"Let me outta here!"

"Not yet! I'm not finished."

"Mattie! DAD!"

The only part of the boy that was still visible beneath the blanket of white was his face, flushed scarlet with frustration.

Fearing something terrible had happened, Arthur swept out of the house without a coat, and it was only when he was within five feet of the boys that he realized exactly what the problem was.

"What in the world—? Matthew?"

"Quick! Take a picture of him before he frees himself," Matthew insisted, stumbling onto his feet and sticking his hand into Arthur's pocket to find his phone.

"Worst. Brother. Ever," Alfred punctuated from his trap. "Dad! Yell at him!"

Caught in a fit of chuckles, Arthur watched as Matthew finally snagged his phone and took pictures from a number of angles. They would pick the best one to print and frame.

Arthur leaned down to browse through the photos and said to Matthew, "I like this one best."

"DAD!"

"Poppet, you're bothering the neighbors with all of your hollering."

"You're not supposed to take Mattie's side!"

"Who said I'm taking sides? I'm neutral," Arthur remarked with a playful look. Nonetheless, he went about digging up the boy a moment later, brushing the layers of snow off of his winter attire. "Your clothes are soaked through. I'll set up a hot bath, and then we'll get you changed into something dry."

"Aww, a bath? No fair."

"Yes. Hurry along."

Minutes later, Alfred was being led into the house by his father. However, he paused by the front door and stuck his tongue out at Matthew, fastening a tight scowl onto his face. "This is war, Mattie. I'm gonna get you good. Sleep with your eyes open tonight, bucko."

His brother had the decency to seem at least a little bit afraid of the threat. "I'll be waiting, Al."

"Pfff…" Alfred spluttered as he followed Arthur into the bathroom. "Why'd you adopt him too? Wasn't I enough?"

The man tousled Alfred's hair and steadied his gaze on the forlorn blue eyes looking back at him.

"Everything's better in two's, Alfred."

* * *

Sometimes, you just had to drop everything and unwind. Now was one of those times.

"I'm taking you out."

"I beg your pardon?"

Francis clawed at a tickle on his chin and said, "We're going out for dinner. Wear something nice."

"Nonsense... I have papers that need to be graded by the end of the weekend, and by the time I round up the boys, it'll be time for supper."

"We're not taking the boys."

Arthur dropped his red pen and narrowed his eyes. If only looks could kill…

"Excuse me, Bonnefoy, but are you suggesting a date?"

" _Oui_. I didn't think I was being conspicuous, Kirkland. The boys will be leaving for the Vargas's house any second now, and they'll be out of sight until exactly ten o'clock tonight."

"How could you send them off without telling me?"

"Don't make this difficult, Arthur," Francis pleaded, bowing his head in mock reverence. "We haven't been on a date together in over eleven years. You can set aside one evening of paperwork, can't you?"

Arthur hesitated. He didn't particularly enjoy spontaneity anymore. He followed a meticulous plan carved specially for him, and it wasn't easy to break him out of that schedule.

"At least give me a chance. I know you're a heartthrob these days, but I'm a man with good-intentions. I'll treat you well," Francis went on with his teasing, hoping it would be the final grain of sand to tip the balance in his favor.

"I… I don't know about this."

" _Mon amour_ ," Francis was practically purring, and he used his nimble hands to his advantage. A little caress here and there, and Arthur melted into his touch. He was so stressed, and it hurt Francis to see his husband suffering from such mental fatigue.

"Okay. I'll be ready in half an hour."

Francis pecked his temple and nodded. "Perfect. _Je t'aime_."

"Manipulative, frog," Arthur grumbled as he trekked his way over to his dresser. He was going to leave it at that, but then he remembered the incident with Raivis, and then the car accident, and then the many other times he'd come frighteningly close to losing the man. He bounded across the room, pressed his semi-cold hand against Francis's cheek and said, "I love you too."

And that was the thing about Arthur, Francis realized, when he said he loved you, you knew he meant it. He didn't throw the words around and waste them on just anyone. He treated the words with great care—the complete opposite of Francis. They weren't habit for him. They never tired or lost their shine. His words made you feel their impact.

So, even though Francis had burned out his words long ago, he tried to show his affection through his actions instead. When they arrived at the restaurant he had found for them, he walked arm-in-arm with Arthur and ignited some cheerful banter. Not a single dull moment broke their fun.

Tables didn't suit them well because they would've had to sit across from each other, and that was too much distance for them to spare. Thus, they sidled into a booth and sat side-by-side, leaning on one another because life could be damn tiring.

"I get to choose the wine," Arthur whispered when they were close to dozing off. It was a shame they didn't do things like this more often, but they were parents, and the boys were still too young to be left to their own devices for too long. They could only enlist the Vargas brothers as babysitters so many times.

"Anything you'd like, _mon cher_. The night is ours."

When the food came, they taste-tested each other's plates before diving into their own. They talked about work, the boys, future plans… Maybe they'd save up and go someplace nice over the summer. A proper vacation was in order.

They left the restaurant around seven o'clock, and it seemed a shame to head home early and waste the three hours of freedom they had left. Arthur suggested they take a walk, but it was cold out, and neither man had the energy for that kind of hike through the snow.

"We're in the city, and we have the car. We can be wild," Francis alluded, a coy look on his face. "We could go to a club."

The response was expected. Arthur scoffed as though offended and crossed his arms. "We're too old for that."

"Too old? You must be joking. We're not even middle-aged yet, Arthur. You act as though we'll keel over and roll into our graves tomorrow."

"We're definitely not at our prime anymore, Francis."

"That doesn't mean we don't get to have fun every now and then."

It took fifteen minutes of bickering for Arthur to relent, and then, they were off. At wit's end, Arthur had given up his role as the 'responsible one' and remembered walking into the club, but not walking out.

Regrettably, he'd had a few drinks, and Francis hadn't bothered to stop him until it was too late. Impaired and dazed, he forgot much of what he did that night, but Francis told him all about his escapades. Apparently, he was a very good dancer when tipsy.

Francis had been sober, and he drove them home at a quarter to ten, no longer fearful of the road after his experience with Raivis.

"You're a lightweight, Arthur. You always have been."

He shouldn't have said anything because as much as he loved mocking his husband, the man was also extremely loud and irate while intoxicated. "Shut it! You think you know everything, don't you? You're always on about this and t-that—"

"Shush. You're going straight to bed once we get inside. Then, I'll pick up the twins."

"I'm not going anywhere with you! I-I need… Need…"

"Yes, _mon cher_? What do you need?" Francis queried as he unlocked the front door. "A breath mint?"

"Cigarette."

"No, none of that while you're like this."

They made it to the foyer, and Francis took off Arthur's coat for him and untied his shoes. "It's bedtime."

"Want a drink first."

"You've had enough. I can't wait to see you try to grade papers in the morning."

"Ughhh."

Francis smiled and led them to their room before tucking Arthur in. The bundle of sheets and the comforter would make it difficult for the man to meander out of bed.

"Be quiet, okay? You don't want the boys to see you," Francis said with a brief laugh. "At least you had one night of fun, even if you are going to hate me in the morning."

Arthur groaned as slumber claimed him against his will. He hadn't realized how sleepy he was until his head touched the pillow.

"Goodnight." Francis murmured to him. "I love you."

But the words still sounded flat to his ears.

* * *

"Gimme twenty-five jumping jacks!"

"But my leg hurts!"

"No pain, no gain!"

Alfred sucked in a strangled breath and swallowed back the aches in his knee. If he was ever going to race again, he'd need to work on his stamina.

Matthew had been a good coach thus far; he never gave in to Alfred's complaints, pushed his twin relentlessly, and remained calm and collected even while his brother agonized over his swollen limb. They understood each other, and Matthew always seemed to know when they'd exercised enough. He was brutal and dished out commands with an iron fist, but he knew his brother's limits.

Jogging, leg lifts, mountain climbers—Matthew stood over him through everything. He was more than happy to be in a position of authority, and his bashful and timid nature scurried away as soon as he'd recognized his own power. Alfred couldn't help but think he made a great teacher, and he'd picked up his teaching techniques from the best.

"That was twenty-three. I counted," Matthew scolded him when he'd stopped jumping. "Now you have to do ten more!"

"Mattie!"

"Do you want to race again or not?"

Alfred huffed and completed the task under his brother's watchful gaze. The snow on the lawn had begun to melt, and the faint warmth of spring was slowly rumbling its way through the hills. "That's a dumb question."

Suddenly, their drills came to an abrupt end as Francis came to check on them. He plodded through the soft snow and lowered his head slightly to look at them. "You boys have been out here for a while now. I think it's time for a break."

"But Alfred's never going to be able to run or play soccer if we don't—"

"Soccer?"

"Yeah, Alfred's going to try out for the team in a few weeks and—"

Francis glowered and looked on with worry as Alfred tried to rub the pain out of his leg. "Who decided this?"

"Dad did," Alfred supplied, always the one to give up the latest news. "He said he'd stop smoking if I promised to try out for soccer."

"I see… Well, I'm going to have to talk to him about this."

The man was bubbling with unspoken rage, but he strained a smile onto his lips and wrapped an arm around Alfred's shoulders. "Let's go inside, boys. How are you feeling, Alfred?"

"My leg still kinda hurts when I walk."

Francis clicked his tongue and pulled the boy closer to his side. "I knew you were taking things too quickly. You shouldn't be exercising if you're in pain. We need to schedule you another appointment to the doctor because you're not getting better."

"I _am_ getting better, Papa!" Alfred protested, even though a horrible voice in the back of his mind thought otherwise. He didn't know why his father's words bothered him so much, but tears soon welled in his eyes, and he repressed a sob. "I have to be getting better. If I don't get better, then I can't—I can't—!"

"Shh, shh… Maybe we need to try something else, my bumblebee."

Francis brought him to the couch, pulled the boy's snow boots off, and rolled up his jeans to see the troublesome leg. It was awfully inflamed and hot to the touch. Under his breath, the man muttered, "And he wants to sign you up for another sport? Has he lost his mind?"

Matthew stood behind the couch and put a hand on his brother's head, trying to ease his crying. "I'm sorry if I made you worse, Al."

"Arthur! Come down here!"

"I'm really sorry, Al."

"Arthur!"

The twins jolted forward at the drastic change in Francis's tone. Papa rarely raised his voice, and they discovered right away that they never wanted to be on the receiving end of that booming outcry.

In no time, Arthur made his entrance into the living room, wearing his sternest scowl. He seemed ready to tell Francis off for shouting, but then he noticed Alfred lying miserably on the couch and sang a different tune. "What happened?"

"You're pushing the boy too hard. Go on, take a look at his leg. He needs to _rest_. I know you want him to race next season, but he needs more time."

Gingerly, Arthur touched the tender skin of Alfred's knee with a hiss. He swiped a few tissues from the coffee table and handed them to the child so he could wipe his eyes. "He was doing fine before. He's just having an off day. We'll get some ice—"

"What's this about the football team?" Francis continued, crouching beside Alfred. "He isn't ready for that."

"Toris suggested it."

"It's too much running for him. It'll do more harm than good."

"Sitting on the couch all day isn't going to help him either."

Francis didn't want to instigate a fight in front of the children, and their quarreling was getting them nowhere. They would have to find the middle ground. "He can try out for the team, but the moment he decides he's had enough, you have to respect his wishes."

Arthur nodded in agreement and brushed Alfred's bangs aside. "It'll be okay, Alfred. You'll see."

"No, it won't."

The Englishman sighed and elevated the boy's leg with a stack of pillows. "I need you to trust me," he said, turning to Francis as an afterthought. "I need _both_ of you to trust me."

Francis grunted something in French and let his rage be cooled. It was hard to trust Arthur, especially when one considered how he handled issues like his nicotine addiction. Regardless, marriages required trust, and so, Francis passed his husband the reins and waited to see what would happen.

Before long, not a single trace of snow remained outside, and the dreaded day of try-outs had come. Francis had work that day, but Arthur and Matthew accompanied Alfred for moral support, sending him encouraging words as he tried to impress Roderich Edelstein, the manager of the budding team.

To most, Roderich came off as unapproachable and standoffish. Despite this, there was a wisdom in his eyes that couldn't be denied, and he was clearly competent. As the schoolboys chased each other around the field, he watched their every movement and fitted them into positions that had practically been designed for them. He walked between the clusters of children and observed as they hazardously launched soccer balls into the air, flaunting their strength.

One of those balls just happened to nearly collide with Matthew's face. It fired into the bleachers and the boy stuck his hands up to defend himself, catching the projectile without much of a fuss.

"I think we've found our goalkeeper," Roderich announced from a couple yards away.

Immediately, Matthew blushed and ducked his head to his knees. He shoved an elbow into Arthur's side, prompting him to speak on his behalf.

"Erm," Arthur began, patting Matthew's back. "I'm afraid he's not trying out.''

"That's all right. Does he want to play?"

Matthew bit the inside of his cheek and held his breath, incredibly embarrassed at being put on the spot. This was Alfred's day, not his.

"Matthew, answer the man," Arthur urged him. "It's your decision."

The very idea was absurd to Matthew. He wasn't an athlete. He could barely function without stumbling over his own two feet as it was.

His mouth, however, had a mind of its own.

"Yes. I want to play."

Arthur flashed him a proud smile and ruffled his hair. "Congratulations, then!"

He couldn't believe the travesty he'd committed. He felt even worse about the whole ordeal when Alfred stormed over to the bleachers, grabbed his backpack and made his escape for the car.

He hadn't made the team, and after weeks of stressing his leg just for the chance to play, he felt like a complete failure. Rejection stung.

Arthur tried to cheer him up, but his efforts were futile.

"I knew I wasn't going to make it."

"I don't understand… You performed better than most of the boys that made the team!" Arthur groused, unable to bear the sadness on the boy's face. After a moment of thought, he wandered back to the field and addressed Roderich himself, inquiring about what Alfred had done wrong.

"He won't last a full game, let alone half of one. He can try out again next year," Roderich had said, cleaning up. "He's fast and would make an excellent striker if he weren't injured."

"He's recovering," Arthur explained, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He needs this. He needs a team that'll make him feel as though he can be counted on. There isn't a single opening you could give him?"

"I could have him as one of my reserves, but that's it."

"We'll take it."

Alfred wasn't pleased to hear the update when Arthur returned. He was convinced he'd been given his role out of pity, and it made him feel a thousand times worse. He holed himself up in his room for the rest of the day and refused to come out, even when dinner was ready.

After another unsuccessful attempt to get the boy up and about, Arthur said to him from the other side of the door, "I just wanted to make things better, Alfred."

"You ruined everything!"

Later that evening, Francis was briefed on the day's events, and he shook his head at his husband morosely.

"I told you so."

And well, Arthur felt like the worst person in the world. So much for trust.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Despite the legalization of same-sex marriage in the U.S., thirty-one states are still allowed to discriminate against the LGBT community in the workplace without legal ramifications. I think it's important to note these things, as political awareness is often the first step toward reform.

* * *

Alfred had never hated his father. Even when some quarrels got a tad out of hand, he'd never felt any real, lasting bitterness toward either of his parents. Disagreements weren't uncommon by any means, but they were always settled by the end of the day. In fact, Alfred would often have a long sleep and forget about the entire argument before the following morning's breakfast. As such, he spent far more time appreciating the presence of his parents rather than despising it.

The closest he came to malice was during his first soccer matches. It was then that he startled himself with how easy it was to hate.

Mostly, he stuck to warming benches. He dug the spikes of his cleats into the grass beneath his feet as the game unfolded without him. He watched the rest of his team run up and down the field with a hungry envy, hands stuffed into the pocket of his uniform sweatshirt.

He didn't want to feel jealous of them, but it couldn't be helped. Sixty minutes of ennui and mindless idling tickled his temper, and he was filled with unadulterated contempt for the other players. The youth board's regulations stated that each match should consist of two, thirty minute halves, but even that seemed like an absurdly long amount of time to be sitting on a bench. The boy's muscles often fell asleep, and his knee begged him to lie down while the rest of the team cheered upon scoring a goal.

While Alfred sulked on the sidelines, Arthur could often be found standing in front of the bleachers, offering tidbits of advice to some boys, despite Roderich's numerous insistences that he could very well manage coaching his team on his own. Still, this did not dissuade Arthur from making his own comments.

If there was a silver-lining to the disastrous soccer arrangements, it was that Arthur had kept up his end of the promise. Alfred did not see him touch a single cigarette during the matches, but to compensate for the extreme lack of nicotine, he pursued caffeine instead.

Alfred was pretty sure he'd never seen Arthur pick up a cup of coffee in his entire life before he'd joined the soccer team. The man often complained of what a disgusting choice of beverage it was—absolutely foul. How anyone could choose coffee over tea eluded him. It was the poor man's drink and no better than watered down dirt.

So, when Alfred saw his father voluntary swallow an entire thermos full of dark roast coffee, he was quite convinced that the world was ending. He'd finally done it—he'd somehow driven his father into madness, and he couldn't be cured. It was all downhill now, surely.

And though the boy was glad to see that his father had curbed his cigarette usage to five smokes a day, he hadn't intended for the man to pick up a new addiction to replace his old one.

Alfred had been studying his shoelaces when Arthur came up to him after half-time, sneaking his way over to the child's lonely bench. Apparently, they were tied at two goals each. Alfred had missed all of the action by brooding.

"A fine game, isn't it?" Arthur asked him as he seated himself beside his son, sipping the abominable coffee.

"Kirkland, get away from my bench!"

"Calm down, Edelstein! Pay more attention to your fragmented left flank."

Alfred rolled his eyes at the two and gave a snort of acknowledgment.

"Matthew has raw talent. He's made so many wonderful saves today."

Another snort.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably and unzipped his jacket half-way. It was chilly, but the ruthless winter was finally over, and the blossoming warmth of spring was welcome. "How is your leg feeling?"

No point in beating around the bush. "Bad."

"I've talked to Toris about—"

"Whatever," Alfred cut him off, rather sick of hearing the next treatment plan that his father had stumbled upon.

Arthur sent him a sharp look, all ruffled around the edges. "Don't give me that tone, young man."

"I'm tired. My leg hurts, and _I'm tired_. I don't want to hear what you have to say."

"That is not the way to speak to adults. If something is troubling you, then you can inform me of it in a civiland polite manner."

Alfred kicked up some grass and curled his fingers into the edge of the bench. "I'm quitting the team."

"You've only just started."

"Yeah, and I haven't played at all. I just sit here and watch the grass grow. I don't wanna do this anymore. I want to go home."

Arthur sighed in that exasperated way he often used on Alfred when he wanted to explain something to the boy but didn't know how to phrase it. "Lad, I'm doing everything I can to help you. Being on a team will help you to—"

"I'm not even on the team! Dad, I _never_ play. You wouldn't even come to the matches if Mattie wasn't goalie."

"That's not true. I support _both_ of you."

"It's true, and you know it. I'm quitting, and I'm going to tell Papa about it. He'll let me quit."

His father took a deep breath and the corner of his mouth twitched. Alfred could tell he wanted a cigarette but had already approached his limit for the day.

"I won't make you do something you don't want to do, Alfred. If you really want to leave the team, then you can, but please, think it over before you do."

Alfred made a hum of noise meant to appease his father, but it wasn't convincing. What was there to think over? They'd known this was a bad idea from the start.

Just five minutes of stoppage time left. Then, he could go home and play videogames for the rest of the night.

"Alfred, you're in!"

His eyes almost fell out of his head when he saw Roderich looking directly at him, stern and unrelenting.

"W-What?"

"You heard me! Get on the field! We need some fresh legs."

Alfred didn't even attempt to hide his dumbstruck expression. He turned to his father for confirmation, wondering if he was dreaming. He probably fell asleep on the bench and would be rudely awakened by an irritated Roderich at any moment.

He pinched himself to be sure… Ouch, definitely not a dream.

Arthur was already yanking his sweatshirt off to reveal his jersey. "Hurry along, now!"

"Dad, I'm not—"

He glanced at the scoreboard. They were still tied.

"Your team needs you, lad."

"Yeah, they need me to disappoint them," Alfred snapped, trudging to replace one of the forwards at the head of the field.

Chaos broke out as soon as the whistle went off. The other team took a shot, but the ball bounced off of a goalpost and was sent flying in the opposite direction. Their midfielder scooped up the blob of black and white and passed it to Alfred, who didn't need to think twice before taking off for the counterattack. The pain in his leg suddenly seemed insignificant, and he could hear the cheers of his teammates behind him.

The defenders couldn't keep up with his speed, so he easily crisscrossed past them. All he had to do now was line up the perfect shot. He took a deep breath, swung his leg back, and then…

Somehow, he found himself lying on the prickly grass. It took a few seconds for him to realize he'd been tripped by one of the defenders who had caught up. The boy had hooked their feet together and sent them both sliding down the field. The referee blew his whistle again and called a clear foul.

Another second passed, and a chorus of boos arose from the opposite team's bench as the boy who had tripped him was suspended from the game and given a red card.

"Alfred!"

Arthur and Roderich were hovering over him, checking to see if all of his bones were still whole.

And holy hell, he was afraid his knee had been pulverized into dust.

"That was quite a nasty fall. Are you injured?"

"My knee, Dad."

It was the last thing his father wanted to hear. With gentle hands, he turned Alfred onto his back so that he could get a good look at him and let his eyes scan the leg in question.

Judging by the hiss that escaped the lips of both men, he was done for. He was too scared to look at the damage himself.

"Am I bleeding? Is my leg going to get cut off? Mattie once said—"

"Shh. You're going to be all right," Arthur soothed him, rubbing his head with one hand. "You're not bleeding, but you've earned yourself a bruise."

"Do I have to go to the hospital?"

"We'll see."

He didn't like that ambiguous tone.

Roderich helped him sit up and clapped a hand against his back. "You did a good job. You got us a penalty kick and a chance to win the match."

"I want to take the shot," Alfred said quickly, lurching onto his feet.

"I don't think so. You have to rest your leg, and I can get someone else to—"

"No, it was supposed to be my goal, so I want to take the shot."

Roderich exchanged glances with Arthur and sighed. "Okay, kid. You have a deal."

Thus, Alfred scored his first goal. He'd aimed for upper left-hand side of the net, and even if he'd been a little off, it didn't matter because the goalie threw himself in the wrong direction. The ball breezed past the goal line, and his team's bench exploded with joy. They'd won.

Alfred and Matthew prattled on about the game for hours on end, and Alfred was so stuck in the magical glee that he insisted to Arthur that his knee didn't hurt nearly as much anymore. His father had been skeptical and suggested he get checked out by the doctor just to be safe, but Alfred begged him not to make him go. He just wanted to enjoy the fun and celebration.

Arthur didn't have the heart to break his spirit, so they went home. The twins told Francis all of what he'd missed, and Arthur allowed himself a smile at the revelation that he'd proven his husband wrong. Being on the team really _was_ good for Alfred.

It felt amazing to be on the victorious side of the argument, and he spat Francis's words back with vengeance.

"I told you so."

Francis brushed off the blow as if he'd known it was too good to be true.

* * *

Alfred had gone above and beyond with hiding the extent of the damage done to his knee after the match, but not even he could force himself to stop limping and crying out in pain whenever he bent his leg too much. The knee itself was twice its original size, inflamed and purple with bruising. It hurt even when he was staying still, and when he could hide it no longer, he started crying in the middle of the night, unable to sleep. What if he'd injured himself beyond repair?

Matthew bore witness to scene. "What's wrong, Al?"

"Nothing. I had a bad nightmare."

"Want me to get Dad?"

"No, go to sleep."

But Matthew was stubborn, and when he saw that Alfred wasn't calming down his fit of tears anytime soon, he padded into their parents' room. Both men were sound asleep, and Francis had one arm flung across Arthur's midsection. Something about seeing them so unguarded around each other made Matthew inexplicably happy. His parents were in love, and they weren't discreet about it. He'd come to appreciate that about them someday.

The lighter sleeper of the two, Arthur woke up first, blinking through the darkness. "Matthew," he grumbled, voice an octave too low and groggy. "What is it, love?"

"Alfred's crying. He says he had a nightmare, but I think he's lying."

A proper investigation commenced, and it didn't take much prodding for Alfred to spill his secret. All Arthur had to do was sit on the edge of the boy's bed and tell him he'd feel much better if he talked about the problem with someone.

Then, he pushed back the covers of the bed to see Alfred's leg. He snuck one peek at it and shook Francis awake to let him know he was taking the child to the hospital.

It wasn't an enjoyable experience, to say in the least. At three o'clock in the morning, neither Arthur nor Alfred wanted to be sitting in a stuffy emergency room. They waited a full two hours just to meet with a doctor, and he didn't have anything particularly helpful to say. It was another hour until Alfred had an x-ray done, followed by a MRI. Fortunately, the boy slept through most of the waiting, understandably exhausted.

Arthur didn't share that privilege. He dozed off a few times in his chair for fifteen minute increments, but otherwise remained restless. He waited with thinning patience, realizing he either had to call in sick to work or come in late. Neither option seemed favorable, nor was Arthur going to let his students skip the quiz he'd planned for them.

"No, I'm not joking. The patient's urine is purple. Find out what he ate and get back to me," the doctor said as he entered the room, finishing up a conversation with the nurse. "Sorry about that. Now, let's talk about Alfred."

The boy had fallen into an uneasy sleep again, and Arthur offered to wake him, but the doctor assured him there was no need.

"You know, it's with injuries like these that I wish I could give you a simple answer or a sure-fire fix, but everything is so circumstantial that treatment varies. Your boy still has the same second-grade ligament injury to his ACL as before," the doctor began, skimming through the results of the scans in his folder. "Falling on it definitely didn't help the recovery, but thankfully, it didn't make it much worse either. The tear remains partial and won't need reconstructive surgery. That being said, it'd probably be a good idea to prolong the physical therapy and for him to stop playing all sports until the knee is functional enough that he isn't in any pain and doesn't feel any instability."

Arthur nodded to show that he understood, even though his sleepy mind barely kept up. Track and soccer would be a distant dream for the boy once more.

"I know he's not going to want to hear this news, but rest is the only thing besides physical therapy that can help him. Everyone recovers at their own pace, and injuries to ligaments are notorious for taking a very long time to heal. I'd keep him off his feet until most of the swelling goes down and give him a compression bandage to cushion the area. Other than that, the only treatment is time. Neither the x-ray nor MRI showed any significant change in the injury; he just irritated an already sensitive area. Have one of the nurses write up an absence note. He should skip school for the next two days."

Following the instructions to a T, Arthur made sure all of the paperwork was in order before waking Alfred to take him home. Naturally, he didn't take the update on his condition very well, and so, the bickering began. First, he blamed Arthur for putting him on the soccer team, then he realized he was being unfair and apologized. Minutes later, he placed the blame on himself. He was useless. He couldn't do anything right. His every attempt at progress had been shot down. Forget racing. He had to move on with his life and pick a different hobby—one that wouldn't end up with him unable to walk.

They were making their way down the hallway when Alfred's doctor overheard some of their conversation, and he abandoned the clipboard he'd previously had his attention focused on. He bounded over to the pair and set a hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"One second, Alfred. I want to talk to you, if that's all right?"

The boy stopped his tirade swallowed thickly. There was still time to hide behind Arthur.

"Your dad told me you're an awesome track star."

Alfred lowered his head in shame. "Not anymore."

"Mmm… I don't believe that. You don't just stop being a star. A star has that special something that makes them glow, and it doesn't go away when you get injured. If anything, it gets stronger. Who ever heard of a star who didn't have to go through hard times to become successful?"

"All of the people in track are faster than me."

The doctor twirled a pen in one hand and smiled. "But see, that's what makes you a star. You don't have to be the best. You just have to shine the brightest. You're the one who has to overcome the most obstacles to get to where you want to be, and it makes you special. That's why you can't give up, Alfred. You have to keep running to be someone else's star. They'll look up to you and know that no matter how hard things get, it's possible to go on."

Alfred's shoulders shook. "But what if I don't want to be a star?"

"Well, you don't get to choose that," the doctor murmured with a grin, patting Alfred's cheek. "Take good care of yourself. I want you to rest and listen to your body. If you treat it well, it might return the favor. You're not any less of a star just because you need to take a break, yeah?"

Alfred conceded a sigh. "Yeah."

"If you ever become famous, I'm reserving an autograph, got it?"

"It's gonna cost ya!"

They matched one another's grins, and for a small second, Alfred had hope.

* * *

"You once asked me why I was here, remember?"

Raivis split a chocolate-frosted doughnut with Francis. They'd earned a treat. "Yeah, Bad Cop. How could I forget? It's the million-dollar question."

The air in the coffee-shop was tense—that's the only way Raivis could describe it. The soft music thrumming against their ears did nothing to ease them, and there was always a certain point in the night when everyone became nervous and on edge. Maybe it was the darkness, or maybe it was the way the streets stood in the evening's stillness, waiting for life to return to them.

Francis laid his half of the doughnut on a napkin as he sat by the empty counter. "I did something I couldn't forgive myself for, and it made me quit my job."

Raivis sat back and stretched his legs, letting Francis talk without his usual interruptions or cheeky comebacks. He cherished the times when the older man confided in him.

"I killed a man… We were called to investigate a robbery. A man broke into an old widow's house and tried to get away with around twelve hundred dollars and some jewelry. We found him running away from the scene and started to chase him, until he stopped and pointed a gun at me. He said if I stepped any closer, he'd kill me. I could tell he was scared, and I don't think he would've pulled the trigger. It was obvious that he'd never robbed anyone before, so I tried to calm him. I said we could work things out if he put down the gun, but that just made him more upset. He said he needed the money for his daughter, who was very sick. I don't know what she had, as he never told me—it's possible he didn't have a daughter at all. No one was able to track her down the next day."

Francis brought a trembling hand up to his temple and sighed. "I could hear the other officers behind me growing impatient. I told the man that if he didn't put his gun down, I'd have to shoot him. It wasn't the best tactic up my sleeve, and the robber turned his gun on an officer to my right instead. One thing led to another, and the officer shot him in the leg. While the robber struggled to stay standing, he shot back at the officer, lodging a bullet into his chest. The officer wasn't hurt—he had a bulletproof vest on, but before I could think about what I was doing, I aimed my gun at the robber. Next thing I knew, he was lying on the ground—immobile."

Raivis pursed his lips but didn't comment.

"I was told later that I had used reasonable force, but I don't believe in such a thing. Force is never reasonable. It can't be justified. You can't really ever tell yourself that it's okay that you killed someone or that they deserved it. You have to live with the choice for the rest of your life, and you'll always think there was something else you could've done. Other officers told me it was a part of law enforcement, but I had a lot of anxiety after that night, and I stopped working altogether," Francis explained, leaning his elbows on the counter.

"Arthur was nonchalant about it, and I think that's what helped me cope. He never treated me any different, and he gave me the time I needed to sort things out. When the financial situation became an issue though, I had no choice but to go back to work, and that's how I ended up here with you—of all people."

Raivis allowed silence to hang over them for a minute before saying, "Thanks for telling me… I know it wasn't easy."

"That day with Mathieu… I saw your hand move toward your holster."

"Francis, I'd _never_ —"

"You would. Everyone thinks they wouldn't but they would. The sooner you come to terms with it, the better."

"I couldn't shoot a kid."

"You didn't know he was a child at first," Francis reminded him. "I think it's better to be killed than to kill. At least when you're dead, you can't think about how things could've been different."

"I disagree. There are times when you have no choice, and it is justifiable."

Francis cocked his head to the side and broke off a piece of the doughnut. He'd said all which needed to be said.

Raivis thought it over and said, "Do you know how many cops would be dead if they didn't use self-defense?"

"How many civilians would still be alive?"

"Who wants a bunch of criminals to stay alive anyway?"

Francis frowned. "They are people too."

"Not in my book."

Francis closed his eyes, ran a hand through his hair, and said, "We're all the same. You'll see… Different faces, same stories."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** Right now it looks like I'll be finished with this story around the fifteenth or sixteenth chapter, which isn't that far along! I'm pretty excited, and I hope you are too! Enjoy this week's chapter and remember to leave a review!

 _You can now find me on tumblr!_

* * *

His first three classes were filled with absolute angels compared to the other two ragtag crews he had to deal with each afternoon. The morning classes handed their assignments in on time, never caused too much commotion, and made his job incredibly easy.

Then, as soon as lunch was over, he was greeted by complete beasts. Perhaps it was the sugar in their diets or the time spent conversing with their friends that made them so unwilling to stay still, but his final two classes of the day could be a living nightmare if he didn't remember to keep them on a tight leash.

First came the sophomore global history class. They were loud and difficult to entertain, meaning they often slipped into bouts of boredom and complained about studying the Crimean War. Why live in the past? The nineteenth century was long gone. The Glorious Revolution? Big whoop. The Magna-whatsit?

So, Arthur had devised a plan. He took a trip to the nearest costume store, bought himself a crown ornamented with fake jewels, a set of gold chains, and a scepter that seemed to have been designed for someone half his height. The next day, he made his grand entrance into the classroom as king of the estate.

"We're starting our own empire," he announced, and the room finally became silent. Twenty-two pairs of eyes stared back at him, and a few jaws hung open. Ol' Mr. Kirkland had gone around the bend. "But first, we need a name for ourselves. Any ideas?"

A notorious chatterbox in the back shouted, "The Twerkish Empire. You have to twerk twice a day or be exiled."

The class sniggered and seemed to approve of the less-than-tasteful title, and Arthur supposed he'd allow the fun for a day. He cleared his throat and took up a piece of chalk before writing 'Components for Building an Empire' in large print on the board.

"Right, then. We need to organize ourselves. What's the first thing an empire needs before it can establish its reign?"

"Land!"

Arthur clicked his tongue. "We can't invade and conquer yet. Think of all of our competition—the French, the Dutch, the Spanish, and the Portuguese. We wouldn't last a second at our current state. Think smaller… Basic, even. Remember what I said before—we need to _organize_ ourselves."

He walked over to a student in the front row and handed him the scepter and crown. Then, he prompted the class again. "What do we need?"

"A king!"

Arthur smiled in appraisal and wrote down 'Ruler' on the board. "Long live the king. Well, he won't be living for very long if he doesn't have some protection and lackeys, so what's next? What is our king going to need so that he's a force to be reckoned with?"

The response came quickly this time. "A military?"

Arthur added the word 'military' to the list. "Very good. A strong military is going to be a necessity for us, especially this early on. Now, who's going to do the rest of the king's bidding?"

"People beneath him!"

"So, the rest of our government officials, then," Arthur said, putting 'government' on the list. "We're almost ready to start some quarrels, but we need something very important first. Something no one really considers until there's a lack of it…"

"Money!"

"And what do we need to generate money?"

"Tourism! We could erect a monument in our capital of a person twerking. It'll be an international symbol and our most popular landmark," another student suggested from the middle of the class.

Arthur shook his head and suppressed a laugh. "Well, tourism is a part of it, and so is infrastructure, but I'm thinking something more general. Every country has it, and some countries have stronger ones than others."

"An economy!"

"Precisely."

And thus, Twerklandia and the Twerkish Empire began to thrive. The class came up with all sorts of creative ways to begin world domination and to make citizens pay their taxes. As things became more intricate, problems arose with colonies, and neighboring empires grew troublesome. Arthur would help them find solutions by referencing tactics used by global powers throughout history.

They learned from those that came before. Don't rule with an iron fist like the Romans, but don't neglect your colonies and give them free roam like the British either, or you might end up with a revolution on your hands. Let them keep their customs, but make sure they know who really has power over laws.

Suddenly, the class wasn't terrified of history anymore, and everyone was slow to leave their seats even after the sound of the bell.

That was one nightmare out of the way. One more to go.

He'd just started _Hamlet_ with his junior class, and they were quite resistant to Shakespeare. Arthur would've tied the students to their desks to hold them down if he could have. They practically seized and convulsed at the sight of Shakespeare, as though Arthur had been planning to give them all root-canals. It was a pitiful thing to witness, and Arthur had no choice but to be strict to make sure they kept up with the work.

Pop quizzes became a frequent threat, even though Arthur hated giving them. He had to check that the students were reading, and judging by the scores they were receiving on the quizzes that were announced, they hadn't even opened their books. Those who scored well often cheated, and Arthur was sick of the disobedience.

So, on one fateful Tuesday, he waited for the class to file in and said in a mockingly cheerful way, "Clear your desks."

The class groaned and shuddered, retreating into their comatose states. They looked as though they were dying.

"What is the term today's youth uses when they're reminiscing? Ahh, yes… Throwback? In that case, it's Throwback Pop Quiz Tuesday! I'm sure you _all_ read scene five yesterday."

More groans, and Arthur felt a little sorry for them. "We talked about this," he reasoned before pointing to the poster he'd hung up on the wall. It stated, 'NO WHINING' in black letters with a giant, red 'X' through the center.

"Mr. K, this is like, so not fair."

"Actually, it is fair. The quiz is very straightforward if you read, Feliks."

"But no one read. Can't you just fail us now?"

"No, I won't allow any of you to fail. You're all capable of passing this class, as long as you do the work. We only have three weeks of British Literature left, and then we'll move on to our poetry section. You'll survive."

"UGH! Poetry? Can't you pick something cool for us to do?" Feliks pleaded, ready to get down on his knees.

Arthur rolled his eyes and simply handed Feliks his quiz. "Poetry is _cool_ , if you learn how to properly appreciate it. Now, start writing—eyes on your own paper. Someday you'll thank me."

After ten minutes, Arthur collected the abysmal quizzes and plopped down into his chair with a heavy sigh. "Okay, Feliks you're our Hamlet for today. I can see you hiding, Tino—you can be the ghost of King Hamlet."

Performing the material made things less miserable, but half of the class still snoozed away in the background.

"Feliks, your father's ghost just told you that your uncle murdered him. Try to show some emotion," Arthur guided them along, losing interest himself. After a while, he decided he had to try something to salvage the lesson.

He briefly explained how Hamlet would soon begin his descent into madness, and as they read further along together, Arthur realized he was going to have to sacrifice his pride for the teens. Chiding himself for his poor decisions, he offered to perform as Hamlet in the following scenes, effectively waking the class out of their stupor.

He stood in the center of the class and put on his best acting voice, ignoring the grins and laughs he was attracting. He demoted Feliks to the role of Polonius. He then turned to the second scene of the second act and got into character.

Feliks started them off, "How does my good Lord Hamlet?"

"Well, God-'a'-mercy," Arthur replied.

"Do you know me, my lord?"

Arthur scowled for a moment and said, "Excellent well. You are a fishmonger."

A scattering of students in the back snorted and booed, "Oooh."

"Hamlet's throwing shade," Mathias joined in.

Feliks went on without missing a beat. "Not I, my lord."

"Then I would you were so honest a man."

"Honest, my lord?"

"Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand."

"That's very true, my lord."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion—Have you a daughter?"

"I have, my lord."

"Let her not walk in the sun. Conception is a blessing, but, as your daughter may conceive—Friend, look to it," Arthur finished, putting up a hand to pause their exchange for a moment. "Can anyone tell me what just happened there?"

Crickets. Crickets for miles.

"I told Polonius not to let his daughter walk in public, lest someone impregnate her… Not the best thing to say in casual conversation."

The class livened up and started pushing Feliks to continue. "Beat him up, Polonius! How can he say stuff like that about your daughter?"

"Fight, fight, fight!"

Arthur hastily diffused the excitement. "I think that's a good place to stop for today. You'll finish the scene for homework. Be prepared for another quiz."

"Awwww!"

Fortunately, the bell rang a second later.

* * *

"Dad! Dad! Daaaad!"

Arthur dropped his newspaper on the kitchen table and gave Matthew a patient smile. "I heard you the first time, my boy. What it is?"

"Did you get my report card in the mail?"

"Yes, I did."

"And…?"

"You did wonderfully, as always. I'm very proud of you," Arthur said, depositing a kiss in the boy's hair. "You even made the honor roll again."

Matthew smiled and set his dimples on display. He hugged Arthur around the waist, overjoyed when the man returned the embrace. He decided he liked positive attention far more than the negative kind. "How did Alfred do?"

Arthur patted his back and returned to reading the paper. "You don't have to worry about that—it's my job."

"I heard he did _really_ badly in—"

"That information is between Alfred and me," Arthur interjected with a stern expression. "I'll think about his grades, and you can focus on keeping up the excellent work, all right?"

But Matthew didn't seem ready to quit yet. "Is he going to get in trouble?"

"Matthew, please."

"Are you going to yell at him?"

"No one is going to yell at anyone."

"Is he getting his videogames taken away?"

Arthur rubbed the spot between his eyes and pointed a finger at the doorway. "That's enough. Go and take your bath before bed. We don't meddle in the business of others, do I make myself clear?"

Matthew frowned. Maybe he'd still get to hear the drama unfold from upstairs. "Yes, Dad."

When the boy was on his way, Arthur sighed and put his face in his hands. Alfred had done rather poorly in his American history class, but one could hardly blame him. Much of his free-time was spent at doctor's appointments and physical therapy sessions, so he wouldn't have had the time to study and complete all of his homework even if he had tried to apply himself.

Thus, Arthur was faced with quite the dilemma. He wanted to lecture Alfred on the importance of schoolwork, but the boy had already gone through so much in such a short amount of time that he couldn't find the heart to add to his mountain of problems. He didn't want to treat Alfred like a sick child; he didn't want to use his injury as an excuse to spoil him, but he couldn't exactly treat his son like a healthy child either.

Francis finished his shift early, and joined Arthur in the living room later that night to work out the predicament. They called for Alfred and watched as he limped his way down the stairs. He kept his head bowed, and his shoulders quivered as he sat on the awaiting couch. He waited to be scolded or sent to an early bedtime, but his parents merely whispered something amongst themselves and gave him identical, neutral expressions.

Francis was the first to speak. "Alfred, we know you've been under a lot of stress. It's not easy to focus on school when other things are going on. This doesn't mean school isn't important. We know you've been trying to do well. Some of this is our fault. We put too much on your shoulders at once, and we're sorry. It's time we slow down and take things step-by-step. You won't be playing soccer anymore with that leg, so you'll have more time to yourself during the weekends."

Alfred crossed his ankles and said, "Can I stop physical therapy too?"

Arthur jumped in, serious and stern. "Absolutely not. Your health is above everything else, and physical therapy is the only way you'll be able to recover effectively."

"But I don't like it!"

"You don't have to like it. It's what's best for you," Arthur insisted, looming over him. "Love, we can't stand to see you in so much pain, and we will do everything we can to help you heal. This means we need you to cooperate with Toris and the doctors."

Alfred puffed out his chest and glared. "It's _my_ leg."

"We're your parents, and we get to make the discussions regarding your health."

"It's not fair!"

Arthur put a hand on his hip and sent Francis a defeated frown. Then, he turned back to Alfred and pursed his lips. "Our decision is final, Alfred. You will do as you are told."

"No, I'm not going!"

"Alfred."

"No!"

"Don't raise your voice at us."

"I don't care!"

Sensing that the hysterics wouldn't be ending any time soon, Arthur snatched Alfred up by his arm and firmly led him to the nearest corner of the room. He dragged a wooden chair over to the spot and told the boy to stay put for fifteen minutes. He didn't like doling out punishments, but Alfred was dipping his toes into dangerous water.

"I don't want to hear a sound out of you until I say you can speak."

"I'm not a baby!" Alfred shouted at the wall in front of him, defiant. "No one ever listens to what I want!"

Arthur had a sharp look in his eyes. "If you keep talking, I'll add on to your punishment."

Alfred could tell the man wasn't bluffing, so he directed his anger at the corner instead, thinking about how much he hated the world and how his parents didn't care about him because they never let him make any decisions for himself. How had he managed to live under their tyranny for years? He'd pack up his things and run away at the earliest convenience. He wasn't loved here. His parents just bossed him around whenever they pleased.

No more baths, no more bedtimes, no more practicing manners and sharing with his brother. He'd take to living life on the streets. He'd be tough. He'd fend for himself. He didn't need adults to tell him what to do anymore. He was big enough to do things on his own.

He lost himself in his scheming, and he barely noticed when Arthur put a hand on his shoulder to let him know his time was up.

"Have you calmed down? Can we talk now?" Dad asked him, lending a hand to pull him up to his feet.

"I'm moving out," Alfred declared once he was upright. "I can do things by myself."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and exchanged an amused look with Francis. "Hmm… I knew this day might come. I suppose you're right, Alfred. You're a big lad now. You can do your own laundry, and cook, and clean, and work to make money, and put bandages on your scrapes when you fall, and tuck yourself in at night, and read stories, and take medicine when you're ill, and—"

Alfred's triumphant smirk fell to the floor. He had to do _all_ of those things? He could go without washing his clothes for a while, but he couldn't cook aside from making himself a sandwich. He hated cleaning, and he was pretty sure kids his age weren't allowed to get jobs. He could tough it out if he got sick or injured, and he could read himself a story, but it wasn't the same. He liked having Dad and Papa do those things—they always did a better job. They knew how to make a scrape stop hurting and how to make someone feel better when they were sick. They knew how to fix anything with a hug or some soft words.

"D-Do I have to move out now?" Alfred worried, chewing on his lower lip.

Arthur grinned and gave him one of his magical, one-armed hugs. "We might as well keep you around for a while longer," he teased, guiding the boy back to the couch. "Will you behave?"

How could Alfred stay upset when Dad made it so easy to love him again? He shifted his gaze between each of his parents and sighed. "Yes… I'm sorry."

"We're going to bring up that history grade of yours together, okay?"

"But I'm bad at history."

"Nonsense. History is in your blood, you just have to search for it," Arthur explained, tapping Alfred's nose to bring a smile to the boy's face. "Anyone can be good at history, and it can be fun too. But for now, you should get some sleep. We'll talk about this in greater detail in the morning."

Francis took over and sent the boy off to get ready for bed. When he had bathed and was dressed in his pajamas, both men escorted Alfred to his room, where Matthew was waiting for his return.

"Did they ground—?" Matthew paused when he saw his parents enter, and his face flushed red. They each gave him an admonishing look. "I mean…"

Arthur clicked his tongue at the nosey twin. "Enough. It's time for bed."

Something about everyone being gathered together in the same room made the boys cozier. Arthur and Francis were talking to one another in soft, pillowed tones, and neither twin wanted them to leave. It was pleasant to hear their parents discuss mundane things in the twilight.

"It's going to rain tomorrow. What do we have to do for a little sunshine every now and then?" Francis groused before turning off the lamp.

"April showers bring May flowers," Matthew chanted.

As though Francis's body suddenly remembered the month, he suffered through a scratchy sneeze. "You have an answer for everything, don't you? These allergies will be the end of me."

"Take one of the pills in the medicine cabinet," Arthur suggested. He made sure the boys were comfortable and that Alfred's leg was well-tended to before sweeping over to the door. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, _mes lapins_."

" _Bonne nuit_." Matthew loved how French rolled off his tongue.

Alfred, however, didn't seem to appreciate the grace of language to such an extent. He mumbled a tired, "mmm… night," and left it at that.

When the men had returned to their own bedroom, Francis plastered a cheeky smile onto his face and fit himself against Arthur's frame, head buried in his neck. "Any night spent with you is a good night, _mon amour_."

"As if you haven't tried that line on me," Arthur scoffed in reply. Then, he slid a hand into his husband's hair and kissed him gently, catching Francis by surprise. Usually, Francis was the one to initiate kisses.

He would've been a little more elated at Arthur's affection if another sneeze didn't interrupt him. He released himself from their embrace and directed his mouth into the crook of his elbow, sniffling when the fit was over. "I hate pollen. It's the dust of the devil. Why don't you get seasonal allergies?"

Arthur passed him a tissue and smirked. "Natural selection saved one of us, at least."

* * *

"Come on, we can get through this. Your state exams are just a few weeks away, and I expect all of you score well. I've seen you grow as both writers and readers over this term, and I don't want you to quit when we're almost finished."

"Mr. K, can't we take a break?" Feliks groaned, staring longingly out the window. It was the warmest day of the year, and he was itching to go outside. "Like, my _Hamlet_ essay can wait another day. Please tell us this is the last project."

"It's not. We have two major assignments to go."

Groans—they were the only sounds Arthur managed to elicit from his junior class nowadays. "All right. Everyone get up… You heard me! Up, up!"

His students ambled onto their feet like corpses raised from the grave.

"Start jogging in place. We have to get the blood rushing to your brains again."

"None of the other English classes have to do this!"

"I don't care what the other classes are doing. I care about this class— _my_ class. Feliks, read the sign on the wall for us again."

The teen grumbled under his breath for a moment before saying, "No whining."

"Timeless advice, isn't it? We can relax and treat ourselves to a reward once exams are over. Until then, we're going to continue working."

"Hey, but what about what Tolstoy said?" Mathias reminded him, stopping his jog. He searched through his notes and once he'd found the words he'd wanted, he cleared his throat and raised his voice. "In the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work—look around you."

Arthur tried not to look too thrilled at the fact that the teen had taken something out of his class. "Yes, but you can't cease your work if you weren't working to begin with."

Mathias started jogging once more. "Fair enough."

* * *

"Put down the cup, and no one gets hurt."

"Bloody—! Don't walk up behind me like that, numpty!"

Francis chuckled and stole the mug Arthur had been busying himself with. "That's enough coffee. You're picking a new poison, aren't you?"

"I've only had two cups today."

"Two cups too many," Francis decided, pouring the coffee down the drain despite the howl of complaint leaving Arthur's mouth. "Do I always have to be here to stop you from making yourself sick? You're a strange man, Arthur Kirkland. A very strange man. That is, of course, the reason I married you."

"Funny, I can't seem to recall why I married you."

"Shall I remind you?" Francis asked with a low growl, rubbing his nose against Arthur's.

"A refresher course wouldn't hurt."

An onlooker stopped their playful banter. "Eww, guys. Get a room."

"Alfred! You should be asleep," Arthur spun around on his heel and shooed their son away.

"I was thirsty, so I wanted to get some water. Is this what you and Papa do when Mattie and I aren't around?"

"My god. Look what you've caused, Francis!"

Francis shrugged his shoulders and took a step back, a crooked smile still hanging on his lips. "Don't blame me for your lack of self-restraint, Arthur. We all know how lustful you can be."

"Gosh, Dad."

Both Francis and Alfred seemed to be enjoying themselves, laughing in unison when Arthur opened his mouth, turned scarlet, closed his mouth, and stormed upstairs.

A full minute went by before Francis finally contained his laugh and said, "I'm sleeping on the couch tonight."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** Hello again! I now have a tumblr account. My username is Mandelene, just as it is here. Got a question about me or one of my stories? Want to write a fanfiction but don't know where to start? Found some cool fics/fanart you'd like to share? Swing on by to my blog (Mandelene Fics) for a chat because I'd love to hear from you! I hope to see you there! ;)

* * *

"They're going to be fine. You've prepared them well."

Unbeknownst to his junior students, Arthur worried about standardized tests more than they did. He wanted them to reap the spoils of their labor, and as he sat in the teachers' lounge grading homework and talking to Francis over the phone, he hoped they would remember all he had taught them. After all, he'd trained them to write essays in their sleep. They dreamt of thesis statements. They could pick out literary techniques from passages as though it were second nature. Symbolism, allusions, imagery, direct and indirect characterization—they knew it all. Now, they just had to apply it.

"Have you started thinking about what we'll do over the summer? We could use a vacation," Francis proposed, shifting topics. "A getaway to the mountains would be nice. I know you aren't the biggest fan of the outdoors, but we could stay in a cabin, and it'd be a great experience for the boys."

Arthur tapped his red pen against the table he was working at, unable to keep his hands relaxed and still. He'd been so busy lately that he'd hardly considered the upcoming break. "Do you know how many things could go wrong? Ticks, mosquitoes with the West Nile virus, sunburn, skunks, bears, snakes, rabid raccoons—"

"Oh, please. You always find reasons for why we shouldn't do things. Are we supposed to sit at home for the rest of our lives?"

"That's not my point. Can't you pick something a little more practical and safe?"

Francis huffed, and Arthur could sense every inkling of his aggravation. "How about a trip to Philadelphia, then?"

"Philadelphia gets more dangerous every year. Their murder rates keep soaring."

"What? That's nonsense. We both grew up in cities that are far more dangerous. Both Paris and London have their fair share of bad areas—every city does. The boys would be with us the entire time, and we'd be in a hotel with security."

"I will not expose my children to the harsh realities of urban life. They're not old enough yet."

"They're eleven! It'll be fine!"

Arthur took a large gulp of his tea and tried to decipher the chicken-scratch that one of his students had handed in. No matter how much he narrowed his eyes, the writing wasn't legible. "You asked for my input, Francis. If you didn't want my opinion, you should've organized everything yourself."

"The mountains it is, then. I'll find us a suitable cabin and make a reservation. In the meantime, you should buy yourself some bug-spray. We wouldn't want those ticks to nip at your toes in the middle of the night, now would we? Oh, and I'll leave you in charge of setting up the bear traps," Francis goaded him. They rarely finished a conversation without irritating one another on some fundamental level—it was a sign of their twisted form of love.

"Intolerable frog."

"Stuffy Englishman... When will the students be finished with the exam?"

"Not for another two hours, I'm afraid. Until then, I'm supposed to isolate myself from them. I'm prohibited to even walk by the classroom where the test is taking place."

"Why don't they let you go home? You're not going to be teaching today anyway."

"I might have to proctor a different exam if the need arises."

There was a shuffle of movement on Francis's end, and Arthur surmised that it was about time for him to start preparing dinner. The clatter of pots and pans a minute later confirmed his suspicions.

"Well, it's horrible how they're keeping you away from me. Here I am, spending my day-off in an empty house," Francis grumbled, and Arthur could hear the door to one of the cupboards creak. "All the more reason we need to go on a vacation. Ahh—before I forget… Mathieu has his final soccer match today, _oui_?"

"Yes, and there's a celebration scheduled afterwards. Unfortunately, it coincides with Alfred's physical therapy, so I won't be able to make it."

"He's going to be upset if you're not there."

Arthur sighed and could feel guilt being lodged at his chest with each passing tick-tock of his wristwatch. "I know, but I can't be in two places at once. I'll make it up to him."

"I don't know, Arthur. This wouldn't be the first time that boy has waited for your arrival."

"Thank you for making me feel even worse."

He could picture Francis washing a head of cabbage under running water, phone balanced between his shoulder and neck. He'd be wearing a frown of disapproval, and Arthur would've said something dry and snarky to kill the silence, but his husband beat him to it.

"You're welcome, _mon amour_. It's what I do best, isn't it?"

In a week's time, he'd be told that all of his students passed their exams with grades of mastery.

* * *

Having a papa and a dad was a good thing—at least in Matthew's opinion. Alfred said families had to have a mom—that moms were the ones who were meant to do the nurturing, and if you didn't have one, you didn't grow up the way you were supposed to. Each time Mother's Day appeared on the calendar, Alfred pretended he didn't mind, but Matthew wasn't fooled by his indifference. At his core, Alfred had some traditionalist tendencies, and he couldn't shake off his idea of what a family 'should' look like.

Matthew wasn't as picky. He loved his parents for who they were. He wouldn't dream of trading one of them for a mother figure. He liked their lighthearted bickering and the way they got on each other's nerves and somehow managed to love each other even more because of it. They argued because they cared. They cared and cared until they just embraced one another and vowed they'd work through things together.

This was where Matthew and Alfred disagreed; Matthew would rather have two fathers who loved him to the moon and back then a mother and a father who couldn't stand each other.

Dad and Papa were a team. Their relationship was built upon compromise and mutual decision-making. They were equals. One did not have more authority than the other, but they did, however, rely on each other to fill certain niches.

Some jobs were strictly reserved for Papa, but then there were things Dad excelled in too. Papa washed the car, cooked most dinners, fixed the plumbing, changed the tiles in the bathroom, sewed buttons onto shirts, mowed the front yard, and took their family out on adventures.

Dad, on the other hand, helped with homework, watered the flowers, shopped for clothes, shared imaginative stories, handled most of the bills, brewed tea, and crafted the punishments for bad behavior.

It was better to get in trouble with Papa; he tended to be the more lenient parent, and his punishments weren't always enforced. Cross paths with Dad, and he would remember the exact length of a sentence. If Matthew wasn't allowed to use his computer for a week, then Dad would know whether he had eighty-six hours left to serve or seventy-six.

If Matthew wanted to talk about culture and his parents' roots, he'd go to Papa. Discussions about politics were more interesting with Dad. Advice regarding how to make a tough decision was better received from Dad, but advice about dealing with friends came from Papa. He could tell Papa about a pretty girl at school, but he wouldn't dare ask him how to approach her. No, that was to be discussed with Dad. Though he would deny it if confronted about it, Dad could be remarkably romantic.

And so, Matthew held a certain fondness for both of his fathers.

Yet, despite this, he still felt as though he connected with Papa more than Dad. Papa could throw an arm around his shoulders and listen to anything he had to say, but things weren't as easy with Dad. Dad wasn't so quick to notice his voice, and he always seemed to be busying himself with something. As the more soft-spoken twin, Matthew failed to be assertive enough to grasp his attention for too long. He was sure Dad never intended to give him the cold shoulder. He probably didn't even realize the many instances in which he had overlooked Matthew's presence. He was so used to Alfred's flagrant exclamations that he didn't notice Matthew's more subtle remarks.

Normally, Matthew didn't mind the fracture between them—he just learned to appreciate the time he spent with Dad more. But when Dad didn't show up for his last soccer match, he couldn't calm the stinging in his heart. Yes, Alfred's physical therapy was important, but why did he always place Alfred before him? Why couldn't Papa take Alfred to his appointment for a change?

Papa must've noticed his displeasure because he said, "You know he didn't have a choice."

Dad once taught him about making good choices. Was Alfred the better choice?

The anguish in his gut gave him his answer.

* * *

"Alfred, don't you think it's a little too soon for this?"

"I want to do it, Dad."

"But you should be resting. You don't need this kind of physical exertion right now."

"Yes, I do. I need to finish a race before I go crazy."

Arthur massaged his temples and nodded his consent after some reluctance. He didn't want to see the boy disappointed again, but he had to give him the space to challenge himself. "Okay, lad. If you're sure this is what you want, then I can't stop you."

Alfred pulled on his sneakers and tied the laces into tight knots. He hadn't even attempted to run since the time Arthur had dragged him to the track, but when he heard about a local race open to boys between the ages of eleven and thirteen, he knew he had to seize the opportunity. He had to see if he'd made any progress, and lying in bed with an icepack on his knee wasn't going to measure his strength.

"I'll be watching you. If you get tired or want to withdraw from the race, I'll sort things out, okay?"

"Yeah, I know. Thanks, Dad. You've done a lot already. I'll be okay."

He sounded mature, and Arthur tried to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. His boy had grown up, not physically, but emotionally. He hadn't embarked upon a growth spurt yet, but the light in his eyes was wiser. At just eleven years old, he'd begun to grow into his own identity as a human being. He was forming beliefs and setting his own limits—positive limits.

"Of course, of course… You'll be all right," Arthur whispered as he stowed Alfred's change of clothes in a bag and deposited it in the trunk of their car. "Would you like me to walk you onto the track?"

"Go and find a seat on the bleachers. I'll walk by myself."

Something was dying inside of Arthur. He could feel it shrivel up and turn black. Why did children grow old? Who would want to rid them of such innocence and purity? "Good luck, then. Do your best."

"I will."

Arthur lugged his body away, oddly wistful and wretched as Alfred disappeared from sight. He took the first seat that was available and folded his hands in his lap, sweating profusely under the searing sunlight. Even sitting still in such heat was tedious, and he'd be relieved if Alfred made it through the race without contracting heatstroke.

A vague longing for Francis came upon him. It was easier to get through a bout of anxiety with an accomplice, but Alfred had been adamant that Francis and Matthew stay home, since he didn't want the extra spectators.

"READY."

The mass in his throat tripled in size.

 _You don't have to be the best. You just have to shine the brightest._

"SET."

 _You're a big lad now, Alfred._

"GO."

The boy had a good albeit shaky start, he surpassed half of the runners and kept up with the group in the middle, but one could see the pain inscribed in his features. His brows were drawn into a furrow, his lips curled into a grimace, and he squinted through involuntary tears. Arthur could tell he was struggling to stay on his feet because his legs were quavering to the point where he couldn't run in a straight line. Nonetheless, he soldiered on, and he made it to the three hundred meter marker without a single stumble. While everyone in the stands shouted and clapped, Arthur didn't risk making a sound.

Then, Alfred slowed down. With a hundred meters left, he was nearly last. One boy had already finished in first place, and the others followed shortly behind. One after another, boys zoomed past the last marker and left Alfred in the dust. He'd fallen into a sluggish walk, limping along as the crowds grew silent in confusion. Who was this child? And what was wrong with him?

Alfred seemed to notice the attention he was attracting, and he crept ahead with a sort of terrified humiliation, unsure of what to do next. They were staring. Any second and they'd be laughing too. He was the only one still toddling along.

"Alfred…"

Arthur ran up behind him, panting and frantic. He knelt down so that Alfred could hang an arm around his shoulders and get some of the weight off of his bad knee. Thankfully, the relief was immediate, and Alfred wasn't surprised when he turned his head around and saw his bent-over father smile back at him.

"Finish your race. It's what you wanted."

Too overwhelmed and touched to speak, Alfred walked the remainder of the distance. It wasn't any trouble now, and when he'd finally crossed the finish line, the crowds in the bleachers rose up section by section and applauded him. Grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles—everyone from the community cheered as though he'd claimed victory. Even Arthur stepped back and clapped for him, eyes twinkling.

And suddenly, it didn't matter that his knee was garbage, or that his parents were gay, or that he had come in dead last. He was happy. He was so happy that he couldn't contain it all at once and had to lean against Arthur for support. He hid his face in his father's shirt and wept, barely able to breathe because everyone was too kind to him—too wonderful.

You don't really know how beautiful people can be until you see them make a champion out of a loser.

* * *

"What did I tell you?"

"Oh, belt up already, would you?"

"You see, _this_ is why we can't go on trips. The boys are never any trouble. _You_ , on the other hand, always manage to do something stupid," Francis berated as he led Arthur back to their cabin. He was never going to let the man hear the end of it. "What am I going to do with you now? You _never_ listen to reason. I told you not to wander into the shrubbery after that ball. I hope you've learned your lesson, stubborn man."

A nasty encounter with poison ivy wasn't the best way to start off their summer vacation. They'd only been up in the mountains for two nights, and they already had their first medical emergency to deal with. Arthur should've known better than to walk down to the river to retrieve the twins' football, but he couldn't go back to correct his mistake now. He didn't mind the itchy rash on his forearm as much as Francis's constant fussing.

"Now, who's going to have to drive you sixteen miles to find a pharmacy? _Me_ , that's who."

"I'm sorry."

"I really hope a tick bites you."

Arthur chuckled in spite of himself, angering Francis even further. "I can drive. A little rash is no reason to—"

" _No_ ," Francis growled at him, ready to strike down the suggestion. He threw open the door to the cabin and stormed into the bathroom. "You are going to sit in the car and be grateful that you have a loving husband who endures your stupidity. Now, wash your hands thoroughly. It's not contagious, but you don't want to spread the residue everywhere and make it worse. You know nothing about nature, do you? It's obvious you're not an outdoorsman."

Arthur didn't comment as his husband let off steam, deciding he'd already agitated the other man enough for one afternoon.

"This reminds me of when your mother told me you—"

"Francis," Arthur groaned when he couldn't help himself. Francis had a large repertoire of embarrassing stories from his childhood. His mother was to blame for gossiping on the phone with him for hours on end during the holidays, recounting every detail of Arthur's existence.

"—got tree sap stuck in your hair. It had to be _cut_ out, remember? How you grew up to be so oblivious to these types of things is a mystery to me... Use more soap, and don't scratch it!"

Arthur tried not to sound petulant, but he was losing his composure. "But it itches."

"Good. Change out of those clothes. They need to be washed. In fact, you should probably shower just to be safe."

After Arthur had gone about scrubbing down every inch of his skin, he dressed in a new set of clothes and met the rest of the family in the car. Alfred and Matthew were excited about the scenic drive, but not everyone was quite as pleased. Francis gave him a cold towel to hold over the red skin until they could get him some proper ointment, frowning and fretting the entire time.

"Like a child…"

"I said I was sorry."

"We're putting you in a bubble from now on."

The drive to the nearest town wasn't as long as they had anticipated it to be, and they killed two birds with one stone when they purchased the medication and then decided to eat at a nearby diner. All in all, everyone felt more chipper after a warm, filling meal, and the drive back to the campground was far more relaxed.

With the sun low in the sky, Francis and Arthur settled themselves by the campfire in the middle of the grounds while the boys played in the grass a few yards away. To put it lightly, both men looked a little ragged. Hair tousled, slightly sunburnt, and exhausted from their rendezvous with the perils of the woodlands, it was clear that they'd been through a series of ups and downs in the course of twenty-four hours.

Arthur slouched against Francis as they perched themselves on a lone log, watching the tiny embers flutter into the sky from the fire. His rash-covered arm had been treated with a generous helping of cream and then wrapped loosely in a bandage to keep him from scratching the area. What a whimsical pair they made.

"How's the arm?"

"Fine. It's only a nuisance."

"Mmm, I'm sorry for being so annoyed with you today."

"It's quite all right. I'd have done the same," Arthur mumbled, closing his eyes. "Peaceful, isn't it?"

Francis nodded and lowered his head to meet Arthur's lips. It was nice to kiss him when he didn't smell of cigarette smoke. The man only smoked once a week now—he called it his 'cheat' day. Hopefully, he'd quit completely with time. Any progress was welcome. "Want a marshmallow?"

Arthur scrunched his nose. "Too sweet…"

"You could use some sweetness in your life," Francis coaxed. He stuck a marshmallow on a stick and held it near the flames, waiting until it turned a golden-brown before offering the gooey treat to Arthur. "Open wide."

Humoring the other's whims, Arthur bit off a piece and glowered. He licked his teeth clean and said, "The top was burnt, frog."

"I thought you liked the taste of charcoal."

Francis laughed as Arthur jokingly smacked the side of his head. Then, as an apology for the jibe, he pulled his hostile Englishman into a hug and offered him another marshmallow.

"I'm feeding you to the bears," Arthur murmured.

" _Mon cher_ , that's not possible. The wolves will have dragged you away by then."

"Ha-ha."

Around this time, the twins started some kind of ruckus because of a petty argument. Arthur presumed they were cranky from a lack of sleep, as it was rather late into the night. Thus, they abandoned the campfire and steered the boys into the bunk-beds in the cabin, ignoring the pleas from their sons to let them stay up for just a little longer. They all needed rest.

Arthur and Francis took up the double-bed across the room and dozed off within minutes of turning out the light. Simply being outside for most of the day had drained them of their energy, and they slept like rocks.

That is, until Matthew woke them during some indecent time of the night, panic-stricken and as white as the bedsheets.

A rumble of incoherent words left Arthur's throat, and he peeled back his eyelids with great effort. "Mmph? What's wrong?"

"I heard coyotes howling and got scared."

Arthur shifted himself to the edge of the bed and patted the gap between him and Francis. "Come here, love."

"But I'm too old to be scared," Matthew whimpered.

"You can be scared for tonight. I won't tell."

The boy knew he could trust his father's word. Arthur rarely said anything he didn't mean, and so, he accepted the invitation. He slid between his parents and fitted himself against Arthur's back, secure and toasty as Francis snored up a storm. His papa didn't seem at all bothered by his new bedmate, but he did trap Matthew in the hold of a limp arm, mildly confused for a moment when he realized the figure in his grasp was too small to belong to Arthur.

Papa opened a pair of bleary, blue eyes at him, blinked twice, and went back to sleep.

"Still scared?" Arthur whispered upon finding that Matthew hadn't nodded off. He rolled over to face the boy and dusted stray hairs off of his forehead. "It's okay. You're safe. If anyone's going to get attacked by coyotes, it's going to be Papa."

Matthew allowed himself a thin-lipped smile and snickered. "I'm not scared anymore. I was just thinking."

Arthur returned the smile and let his hand fall away from Matthew's hair. "Okay, love. Don't think too much. The mind is every man's folly."

"Yeah… Goodnight, Dad."

"Goodnight, my boy."

One thing was clear—Dad hadn't forgotten him.

* * *

They got into a fight that day. A trivial, worthless, maddening fight.

"I can't believe they're already in the seventh-grade. How are we going to get them through puberty? They're going to start rebelling, chasing after love interests, and eating until their stomachs distend beyond repair."

Francis laughed as he finished shaving and went about dressing for work. It was an ordinary Tuesday morning. The boys munched on cereal in the kitchen, Arthur contemplated his life choices, and Francis tried to deal with the ever-growing chaos. "We will do what all parents do at this point, Arthur. We'll pick up drinking habits and wonder where things went wrong."

"Can't you be serious?"

"I'm offering valid alternatives!"

"You treat things too lightly! You never take my concerns to heart!"

"That's not true, but can't we talk about this another time? I'm in a rush."

"You're hardly around as it is."

Boom. Francis's previous cheer flew out the window and let itself free. Arthur knew how to set him off. "Well, I don't have a choice. I'd love to stay home all day and talk about child-rearing with you, but I don't get that luxury. I have to work. I have to go out and spend my days and nights picking up crackheads off the street. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?"

"I know your job is difficult, but would it kill you to call more often? I'm the one who has to spend my nights worrying over your damned hide."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure I can chat while I'm putting someone in handcuffs."

"Don't act so high and mighty. Half of your job consists of writing up reports. You can call then."

Francis balled his hands into fists and glanced at the clock on the wall. "I have to go."

"Francis… Francis, just—God damn it all… Can you look at me?"

Two hands wrapped themselves around his own, and he stared into the green eyes shimmering back at him.

"I shouldn't have to wait until we're on vacation for us to get a good look at each other."

"Arthur, I—"

"I _miss_ you."

 _Please, don't go. Stay with me._

 _Can't you see I'm scared?_

"We'll talk later. I'll call."

And with that, he let go of Francis's hands and watched him walk out the door.


	14. Chapter 14

You don't think a tragedy will befall you until it does, and by then, it's too late.

He'd been washing dishes when it happened. The bloody, accursed dishes—as if glossing their teapot to perfection mattered. The window was slightly ajar, and he could hear the boys laughing on the lawn. Their happy cries echoed under the pastels of the sky, and Arthur remembered thinking to himself that they were having _far_ too much fun out there. He set down a soapy plate, dried his hands, and made a move to nag them for disturbing the neighborhood with their staccatos.

But then, the phone rang. The home phone.

Expecting a telemarketer to greet him, Arthur ignored the call. No one of importance would be trying to reach them at five o'clock, and scolding the twins was higher up on his to-do list. In fact, he'd gotten as far as the front door before he realized his grave mistake.

The answering machine flared with life, and the voice that came quaking out of the speaker made Arthur's heart fall to his stomach.

"Arthur, it's Raivis."

He darted for the coffee-table and swiped up the phone, stumbling over a lone sneaker along the way. How many times did he have to tell Alfred to clean up after himself? He would fester in his own pigsty someday and—

"What happened?" he demanded, already grabbing the keys to the car and his coat. He closed the window with a wallop, stunning the boys out of their play. Before long, they were stamping their way inside, curious about what was going on.

Raivis, meanwhile, was speaking a mile a minute into the phone, shouting and only partially coherent. "Just get here as soon as you can."

"Dad?"

Arthur flinched. "What do you mean? Tell me what—"

"Dad!"

In a rush of movement, Arthur swung around and grabbed Alfred by the arm to quiet him. "Not now. Raivis, calm down and tell me what happened."

The boys watched as their father's face drained of color. He seemed to be making a conscious effort to breathe, and he slammed down the phone a second later and said, "Get in the car."

"Dad? Did something bad happen?"

"I said, 'not now', Alfred!"

It would be the second time Alfred ever saw his father cry, and it wasn't pleasant. Dads weren't supposed to cry. They were invincible. They were the ones who checked for monsters under the bed and carried you on their shoulders when the world became too scary. Though Arthur tried his very best to hide his sorrow, there was no mistaking his puffy eyes and crackling voice, and the boys had a very strong feeling that something awful was about to happen.

"Don't cry, Dad."

Matthew's soft sympathy did nothing to quell the sadness. If anything, it only made the spastic hiccups filling the car worse. Arthur lit his way through three cigarettes before they arrived at the hospital (a hospital he'd become all too familiar with).

The Emergency Room seemed to be under siege as they entered—a line of police cars were stationed outside of the lobby, the staff on the unit dispatched themselves like foot soldiers bounding into combat, and Arthur found himself in the middle of the battle.

A trauma team assembled. Arthur recognized their new admission from the other end of the cold hallway, and he weaved his way through the masses to reach them. A nurse noticed his intrusion and tried to stop his foray, but fear gave a man immense strength, and she was no match for him. Seconds seemed like days as he came before the right stretcher, bursting through the sea of doctors.

A bleeding man was the center of attention in the hospital room—a blond haired, blue-eyed officer clad in a shiny badge. With a unified heave, two paramedics and a nurse transferred the man to a proper bed.

"Francis, Francis, Francis."

Perhaps if he said the name enough, the ghostly shell of a man staring back at him would remember how to be human again. Noticing the slack emptiness on the poor soul's face, Arthur could hardly admit to himself that he was looking at his husband. He'd mixed up the rooms. He barged in on the wrong patient. He _must_ have.

He twisted his neck around to find the nurse who'd been chasing him earlier. She would know where Francis was. She would lead him to a different bed. His frog was probably watching a re-run of a sappy soap opera as a doctor stitched up a little cut on his arm. This wasn't him. This white-washed, sweat-drenched man was not his intolerable bastard. No. _No._

"Sir? What are you doing in here?"

 _Please, please,_ _please_. _It's not him._

Before he could be whisked away from the scene, Arthur took the sallow man's hand in his own and peered into his clouded eyes. Francis was awake, but one couldn't really say he was conscious. Delirious, yes, but not mindful of his current state or the people around him. There was a globular wound above his ear, relatively small and innocent to those who didn't know any better, and Arthur kissed him as hard as he dared, hoping to rouse him. How many times had he missed the opportunity to show how him much he loved him? How many parts of him remained unkissed—unappreciated?

"Francis, I'm here."

"Sir, we're going to have to ask you to leave."

Arthur's tears dribbled from his chin and splashed the bedsheets. Why had he fought with him that morning? The boys caught up to him, and they were trying to break their way through the crowd to see.

"Oh, Francis. I'm so sorry. Please…"

"S _ir_."

Words. Words always consoled them—they were the buoy in the open ocean. He racked his mind for something that he could recite. Something they could both carry with them until the storm blew over. Whitman, Poe, and Rilke all failed him. What did they know about the kind of crushing pain that was ripping his heart from between his ribs? They were frauds… Pretty dreams of love and eternal romance.

Why couldn't he have a pretty dream? Why was he left to suffer the refuse of life?

Fifteen years ago, he met the only person he truly loved at an open mike in an American tavern. His name was Francis. He didn't give a damn about poetry—he just came for the delightful wine. Poetry, he said, was mostly a collection of nonsensical ruminations. Why waste time writing about the rosy past or the grim present? The only words worth writing, he believed, were the ones that created new life and meaning—the ones that taught a deaf man to hear and a young boy to love.

That night, Arthur had learned how to feel—how to love until the sky split open and rained on them in contempt. And now, after nearly fourteen years of marriage, he spoke the same verses of E.E. Cummings that he'd spoken then.

"Yours is the light by which my spirit's born. You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars."

Francis blinked, but everything remained doused in a haze. Arthur waited for a flicker of recognition or that sly half-smile of his. He waited and waited, but it was no use, he may as well have been talking to a brick wall.

"My God, Francis. It's me, Arthur. Say something… I _love_ you."

The bothersome nurse from before put a hand on his shoulder and led him away from the bed as though he were a kitten who had ventured into the precarious corner of one's house. The boys followed, not yet sure of what they had seen.

Someone had soaked his eyes with pepper-spray because they wouldn't stop running, even after the nurse led him a safe distance away. "What's wrong with him? T-That's my husband. I need to know—"

The nurse sat him down in the nearest chair and frowned. The pity in her eyes made Arthur sick.

"The bullet seems to have damaged part of his left brain, which means he can't process language at the moment."

"But could he recognize me? Does he know I was there?"

"It's hard to say. We can't tell the severity of the injury until the scans are completed."

Arthur let his face fall into his hands. All he'd wanted was for Francis to know he was there. He was there, and he loved him—would never stop loving him. The thought of _not_ being with Francis made him numb, so numb, in fact, that he'd forgotten how to move until the sound of Matthew crying pulled him into reality.

He reached out his hands and gathered the boys in his arms. Matthew wriggled onto his lap and Alfred seated himself beside them, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder. For a while, nothing was said. They eased into each other's presence and listened to the buzz of the ER. Cardiac monitors were bleeping from some of the rooms, the crinkling of plastic wrappers could be heard as sterile packaging to syringes were torn free, and there were doctors making small-talk as they passed.

"—and he didn't even give him a blood thinner. I mean, honestly, how did some of these people make it through medical school?" one of the doctors murmured before gnawing off the end of a candy bar. "I'm telling you, it gets worse every year."

Arthur sighed and laid Matthew's head over his erratic heart.

* * *

Alfred had finally mustered the courage to ask, "Is Papa going to be all right?"

"I don't know, lad. We have to wait and see."

"Did somebody hurt him?"

"Yes."

"Who did it?"

"I don't know."

"Is he going to go to jail?"

"He might."

Alfred leaned back in his chair and chewed on his thumb in worry. "I hope he gets in a lot of trouble and never gets to hurt anybody ever again."

"So do I."

Their exchange upset Matthew even further, and Arthur did all he could think of to soothe him. He tugged the boy closer, petted his hair, and told him it was okay. They were going to be okay. They were a family, and families always worked their way through tough times. Even when things seemed broken beyond repair, and all they wanted was a 'reset' button to start over, they'd come up with a way to hang on.

"Shhh. You know Papa wouldn't want you to be crying. We're going to be strong for him."

"Yeah, it's okay, Mattie," Alfred added with a meek smile. He could feel his need to be protective of his brother growing, and he wished he'd stop his tears. "Dad won't let anything bad happen."

Arthur twisted his fingers through Matthew's hair and ignored the aching in his legs from holding the boy in his lap for so long. When had he become so heavy? Arthur couldn't recall giving him permission to grow up.

"W-When can we see Papa?" Matthew whispered after calming down somewhat. He was grateful for the fact that Arthur was still dutifully holding him tight.

"As soon as the doctors say we can, poppet."

And so, they continued their stake-out in the waiting area. Time seemed to pass with pregnant pauses. At one point, Arthur and Matthew fell asleep, meaning that Alfred was left to keep watch on his own. He thought of all the bus rides with Papa, the funny stories, the talks about the past and what life used to be like. Papa always had an anecdote up his sleeve, and Dad disapproved of most of them.

"Hey, kid."

"Huh?"

Alfred furrowed his brows as a hand found his shoulder. A young man stood in front of his chair, and Alfred was fairly certain he'd seen him around before. He was a friend of Papa's.

"Are you Raivis?"

"I sure am," the young man replied, letting his eyes wander to Arthur and Matthew. He had a skittish demeanor, but his voice gave him confidence that he'd otherwise have lacked. "Did you guys hear any news yet?"

"No."

Raivis planted himself in one of the lumpy chairs and sulked. "Your papa's been a great mentor to me. You see, I'd just become a cop when I met him… Drove him up the walls at first, but I don't think he ever really hated me. We got along most of the time, and I got a few laughs out of him. He's a complicated man, and he's obviously gone through a lot in his life, so I can see why he takes his job very seriously."

"My papa? Serious?" Alfred wanted to snicker at that. If Raivis thought Papa was a serious character, than he must not have been well-acquainted with Arthur. "Papa says all the funny stuff. He makes Mattie and I laugh at everything."

Raivis smiled and traced circles on Alfred's shoulder. He could tell the boy had been crying, probably when no one was looking. "Guess he had a funny bone after all… How's the leg doing?"

Alfred snapped his head up. "Hey, how do you know about that?"

"Your father told me a lot of stuff about you and Matthew. He didn't have anyone else to tell it to. You didn't answer my question, by the way."

"It's better, and I've started racing again. I can even ride the bike at the physical therapy center now. Dad says we can all go biking together soon."

"That sounds like fun."

"Yeah, Dad says I have to wear a helmet, but I'm old enough not to. I told him it's not cool, but he says that he'd rather have me be uncool and safe than cool and in danger."

Raivis mimicked the humming noise he'd picked up from Francis and pursed his lips. "Your dad's got a good point. All professional bikers wear helmets. He's just looking out for you. I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but our parents are usually right. Not always, of course, but they do have a lot more life experience, and that makes them a little wiser."

Alfred spluttered and grimaced in disagreement. "There are a lot of things parents don't understand."

"That can be true, but they've been in your place. Plus, they love you, and they get scared when they see you making mistakes. Sometimes that fear makes them come off as unreasonable. But let me tell you something about your papa, he loves you and your brother. He'd do anything for you two. He talks about you guys _all_ the time, and it's obvious that you, Matt, and your dad are the greatest joys of his life. I couldn't even believe—oh, I'm sorry. Don't cry, Al."

There were a fresh set of tears smeared over Alfred's face, and he looked at Raivis with a deep despair. "I saw what they did to Papa. He was hurt bad and—"

Arthur woke up during the conversation and carefully shifted Matthew off of his lap and into the next chair, doing his best not to rouse him. Then, when he was certain the boy was still asleep, he greeted Raivis with a nod of acknowledgement and crouched beside Alfred, who had gone from sad to absolutely distraught in a matter of seconds.

"Come here, my other juvenile delinquent," he said to the boy, encasing him in a hug. "Chin up. If you keep frowning, you'll be stuck like that forever."

Voice muffled in Arthur's shirt, Alfred retorted, "I don't believe you."

Arthur managed a tiny smirk and patted the boy's back. "How about we find you some food? You must be hungry."

"I can take the boys out for something to eat," Raivis offered, still clad in his uniform. Judging by Arthur's state, he didn't have much of any appetite, nor was he looking forward to leaving the hospital without an update on Francis' condition.

The relief on Arthur's face confirmed his thoughts. "It wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Of course not. It's the least I can do."

And it was a good thing the twins left because no more than five minutes later, Francis' doctor arrived to speak with him, and Arthur was at the end of his ability to stay calm for the children. He had to remain seated when the doctor approached, because he couldn't trust himself to stand without toppling over. Everything hurt—breathing, blinking, thinking, talking, questioning, even just listening. Especially listening.

"There was a lot of bleeding, and the hemorrhaging in his brain was quite severe."

Arthur gripped the edge of his chair and tried to get his heart to work normally again. "But you treated it. You stopped the bleeding?"

The doctor lowered his head. "I'm sorry. We did what we could, but with that kind of trauma…"

They say your life flashes before you when you die. It doesn't. It flashes before the living.

Suddenly, he was in Paris, choking down a garlic-buttered snail because Francis had dared him to and thought it'd be hilarious. It was.

"If there's anything I can do..."

He shoved Francis against the wall of their one bedroom apartment. How could he even suggest moving back to Europe? Of course they were homesick, but life was easier here—peaceful—even if they attracted scornful gazes on the street. He made it clear that it was either him or Paris. He chose him.

"You can see him, if you'd like."

Children. They'd always joked about the idea. Yes, they wanted a family, but imagine the pair misfit fathers they'd be. Francis insisted they adopt—that it wasn't as preposterous as it seemed. They made the best decision of their lives on a whim.

"Take as much time as you need."

He turned the corner to the hospital room and lost all feeling. He couldn't process grief. He merely stood by the bed and let tears fall of their own accord. He was a pool of nothing. He'd lost the one thing he'd ever needed. Here lied the broken remnants of his life.

The long nights spent together, the lullaby-singing and diaper changing, the Christmas dinners and gingerbread houses, the birthdays, the anniversaries, the rainy days spent inside, the sick days full of sniffles and cuddling under blankets, the unwanted French lessons, the laughing at the stupidest of things—gone, all of it.

His worst fear had come true.

"You said you would be safe. You said you'd be careful," Arthur reminded him, locking their hands together. He pecked kisses on his head and sobbed, cursing colorfully in between gasps for air. "You promised, you git."

The ball playing, the road-trips, pushing the boys on the swings, movie nights—

"You _promised_."

The time he'd been sweeping the floor in the kitchen, and Francis grabbed him by the waist, spun him around despite his protests, and said, "I'm so lucky to have you, _mon amour_."

"I don't know why I love you."

They'd met by chance. That's how they'd lived their lives—by a series of chances. Beautiful, magnificent chances.

"But I _do_ love you, and you can't do this to me. The boys need you. I need you. I won't smoke. I'll compliment your hair every day. Just don't leave me like this."

Been and gone. All of it.

And he wished he were dead too.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** We have one more chapter left after this. Thank you all for sticking with me. :) Also, just another reminder that you can find me on Tumblr under the username "mandelene" if you aren't following me yet. I'm always happy to answer any questions/provide further details about my fics on my blog. Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

" _Frère Jacques, frère Jacques,_

 _Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?_

 _Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines.  
Ding, ding, dong. Ding, ding, dong."_

Daddy's French didn't sound right. Matthew could pick out the clunky vowels—the Germanic undertones peeking into Dad's singing. His pronunciation wasn't bad by any means, but it differed from Papa's native timbre.

"Try to sleep, my love."

Matthew shivered through a sob and clutched Arthur by the waist, unmoving. He hadn't spoken since they'd left the hospital, and now he was lying in Dad and Papa's bedroom, shaking so hard that the mattress rattled beneath him.

"Rest your eyes… That's it."

He must've been lying by Dad's side for hours because it was nearing two o'clock in the morning. Warm hands scrubbed the tears from his face with a moist towelette, and Dad murmured old rhymes, testing them against Matthew's ears.

" _Three blind mice. Three blind mice. See how they run…"_

Dad himself wasn't faring any better. The whites of his eyes seemed to take on a permanent shade of crimson, and his shoulders fell forward with fatigue as though he could barely hold himself up. Every now and then, he'd let his attention wander to the nuances of the room—the dress shirts that needed to be ironed, Papa's wristwatch on the nightstand, the abandoned pair of slippers by the closet.

"Oh, Matthew… My dear Matthew," Dad whispered, too distressed to turn off the bedside lamp. Perhaps he couldn't bear to sit in darkness. "I'm s-sorry. I'm—"

Matthew wanted to say there was nothing to be sorry for, but he knew the words wouldn't leave his lips. Nothing they said was of any importance anymore. They were just making noise to fill the silence.

"I love you so very much."

 _Oh, please don't go—I'll eat you up—I love you so_ , Matthew thought, remembering the lines from one of the many stories Dad had read to him and Alfred over the years. Alfred had fallen asleep hours ago—barely made it to the car before he nodded off. Alfred slept to forget because you couldn't feel pain in your dreams. Matthew envied him.

"Oh, God," Dad said with a pitiful moan. "What am I going to _do_?"

A lump of cells without an identity—that was what had become of Papa, according to what Matthew was told. He was alive on a fundamental level. His heart was beating, his blood was flowing, a ventilator pumped oxygen into his lungs, but he couldn't manage anything beyond that. How was that life?

The doctors knew it. Dad knew it. Matthew knew it. Brain dead was just a slightly less toxic word than dead, but they were remarkably similar in definition.

They could keep Papa physically present for as long as they pleased, but what was the use in that? He couldn't hear them—wouldn't be able to process a single word spoken to him. He'd never laugh or cry or hum or scoop them up in his arms and kiss them.

And Dad seemed to know this too. As much as he would've liked to hold on to some blind hope for a miraculous recovery, he knew the world had no such miracle to offer him. Papa would've wanted peace—a death without further suffering or embarrassment, and Dad planned to give it to him. In the morning, he'd visit him for the last time, and decide that enough was enough. Let the dead rest and the past remain the past.

He would lay his head on Papa's chest, listen to his steady heartbeat and study his robotic breaths, and then, he would let him go because it was the right thing to do. They'd loved and loved each other for as long as they possibly could have, and there was nothing else Dad could do.

Dad would wrap his arms around the boys, squeeze them tight, and take them home.

The house would be quiet. Dad would retreat to the bedroom with the door shut, and he'd sit on the ground, staring up at the windowsill until he could convince himself that everything was fine. The carpet could use a good vacuuming. The bed needed to be made. There were dust-bunnies under the dresser. He'd fluff the pillows, smooth the sheets, and realize just how large the bed was for one person.

Francis and Arthur had talked about it before—what they would do if the other passed. Back then, the conversation had been formulaic. They'd sat in the living room as young parents and considered their options from afar. It all seemed distant and foggy, as though it could never possibly become a reality.

They both agreed that they'd want each other to continue a life of normalcy. They also agreed that it would be okay to see other people, but Arthur made it a point to mention that he'd never allow himself to move on to someone else. Francis didn't argue. He knew firsthand how stubborn Arthur could be, and he figured he'd be the type to never allow himself another love. So be it.

One day they'd joked that if they were killed in a plane crash or lost at sea, the boys would be sent to their Uncle Allistor (Arthur's elder brother) in Scotland. They laughed at the idea of the twins herding sheep and eating haggis. That's all death had been to them in years past—a joke… An unfathomable state of being.

The funeral took place on the fifth of October. It was a gloomy date filled with unforgiving rain and swamps of mud. Arthur handled all of the formalities, and the boys witnessed his incredible tenacity for being a well-mannered host. People meandered in and out of the house for an entire week, offering condolences and depositing white flowers on the kitchen countertop as the boys watched on with weary eyes and solemn faces. Half of the guests were complete strangers to them.

Alfred and Matthew occupied themselves with sitting on the front lawn, ripping dandelions and blades of grass out of the ground as the house was taken over by the community. Many of the visitors were police officers, and thus, intimidating to be around. Raivis stopped by often to check on them, and they would chat for a while, but that was all of the social interaction they generally took part in.

"Do you think it makes Dad angry?" Alfred asked Matthew, spruced up and dressed in black as a gust of autumn leaves pranced around them. Their outfits were identical—black suits and loafers that matched Dad's attire, except that Dad wore his clothes with a certain gracefulness. Matthew couldn't remember the last time either of them looked so put-together and tidy.

"What makes Dad angry?"

"Seeing all these people here? The same people who used to give him dirty looks for being gay."

Matthew frowned. He hated the word 'gay', and he couldn't help but grimace every time it was spoken. People were people, and they could love whomever they desired. Why did they need a separate word for it?

"I don't think it bothers him that much… Dad probably thinks they've changed."

Alfred scoffed. Already, Matthew could see a smudge of dirt on his brother's collar. He seemed to attract filth. "People like that don't change."

"Yeah, they do. Anybody can change."

"Well, I don't believe 'em. I remember what they did and said."

"Al, sometimes you just have to let things go. You can't stay mad at the world forever."

"Who says?"

Matthew sighed and tried to swipe at the remaining streaks of tears on his face to no avail. "Fine, do whatever you want. Papa would've been happy to see everyone here, whether he liked them or not."

"Papa deserves better than those jerks in there."

"Alfred…"

"They weren't even his friends."

"But they knew him. That counts for something."

"Not really. Besides, Papa never wanted friends. He didn't need them… He had us and Dad, and we were happy together."

Over the days following Papa's funeral, this was how most of the conversations between the boys progressed. Alfred could snap at anything, and he regarded even minor issues with aggression. Matthew pictured him slowly growing into a ball of fire, raging without mercy. No matter how many times Matthew told his brother to calm down, his pleas were left unacknowledged, and when Matthew finally informed Dad of the dilemma, his response was uninspiring.

"That's just the way in which Alfred is grieving, lad. He'll be all right with time—we all will be."

And though he didn't believe Dad at first, his prediction came true one night, and all of the walls Alfred had built up over the span of two weeks broke apart. He plodded into the master bedroom, bawling and clinging to a soggy pillow with all of his might while saying, "I miss him," over and over again.

Dad tossed aside the book he'd been trying to hide in, and he spread his arms out like wings to draw Alfred near. He thumbed away the boy's tears and dipped his head down to kiss his cheek as he had done so many times before.

"I miss him too, love. I miss him too."

They rocked back and forth on the bed, and Alfred stifled his hiccupping. "I d-didn't want to b-be sad 'cause I didn't want to s-scare Mattie, but I—"

"It's okay to be upset, Alfred," Dad hummed. "It's important to feel the way you want to feel."

"P-Papa said I'd be the man of the house someday, but I can't do that if I cry like some little kid."

Dad put on a tired smile and brushed a hand through his hair. "You can still be a man even if you feel sad and scared sometimes."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

Alfred bit his lip and looked up at the soothing green eyes blinking back at him. "Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"You don't even have to ask, my boy."

* * *

Around the time the boys went back to school, Dad let them know that they'd be having more visitors. Uncle Allistor and his wife, Aunt Maretta, would be staying with them just until Dad and the boys "got back on their feet". They also had a son, Peter, and chances were he'd be tagging along too.

Extended families were a foreign concept to the twins, as they'd never met any of their relatives. Dad never kept up very good relations with his brothers, and Papa had always pretended he didn't have a family outside of their little quartet.

Therefore, the boys braced themselves for the worst when the other branch of the Kirkland family came knocking on their door. Matthew felt tempted to lock himself in one of the bedrooms and demand the foreigners go home, but it would be in poor taste, and he didn't want to trouble Dad.

Dad greeted them cordially, although one could tell he was friendlier with Maretta and Peter than with Allistor. The two Kirkland men eventually shook hands and exchanged a grumbled set of words. When all of the luggage had been brought in, Dad and Allistor snuck away into the kitchen and had a long and arduous discussion by which they resolved the bulk of their differences. Apparently, they hadn't had a proper talk with one another in years, and it seemed to do Dad some good to improve his relations with his sibling. He walked with lighter steps, and the creases in his forehead were eased.

"The lads are becoming men," Allistor had noted, shaking hands with each of the twins before engulfing them in a bear hug. "Have ye introduced yerselves to Peter? He doesn't bite. Not anymore."

Peter was nine, making him the junior of the twins by three years. He made for interesting company, but he had more energy than both of the twins combined, and before long, his presence became slightly irritating. However, both Alfred and Matthew got along with him rather well, and when they weren't completely burnt-out, they did enjoy playing together. Unlike the twins, Peter had taken additional time off from school and had far too much time on his hands.

The house wasn't quiet anymore, and they didn't understand how much they'd missed the noise until it was finally back.

Probably the best part about having additional Kirklands in the house was Aunt Maretta's cooking. She always kept the kitchen table stocked with food, and the boys never had to worry about a lack of snacks. She took over most of the household duties, forcing Dad to take some time out of the day for himself. Their father often insisted on keeping himself busy because "idleness was the devil's playground", but Aunt Maretta wouldn't let him touch a single dishtowel or broom.

"For God's sake, Arthur. I'm sure you have something better to do than sort laundry."

"No, I don't, actually."

"Then go upstairs and relax. Take a kip. If you don't stop hovering about, I'll skelp you until—!"

Dad threw his hands up in defense. "Fine. I'll check on the boys."

"The boys can check on themselves. Allistor and I will handle the rest. Keep to yourself."

And so, without any reason to do otherwise, Dad went up to the bedroom and lost himself in another book. He wasn't seen or heard from in hours, and when Allistor eventually invited himself in, he found his youngest brother smoking a cigarette beside the window.

"Alfred mentioned ye smoked. He told me ye'd quit."

Arthur swung his gaze to Allistor, looked him up and down, and then focused his attention back on his cigarette. His informer never failed him. "I did quit. This is my first cigarette in weeks."

"Well, if yer gonna smoke in the house, ye'd better be prepared to share," Allistor muttered, crossing the room. He lit up a smoke and they relished in the atmosphere together. The children were outside, enjoying the final days of relatively mild weather. "How are ye?"

"Damned awful."

As Allistor tried to come up with a response, Arthur blinked furiously at the moisture in his eyes and willed himself to stop his onslaught of wretched thoughts. This was exactly why he needed to be folding clothes and scrubbing tiles.

In spite of the fact that they always claimed to despise one another, Allistor winced at the twisting feeling of sympathy in his gut. He threw an arm around his brother's shoulders, and Arthur softened under the touch, letting his eyes seep.

"I'm sorry."

Arthur pressed his palms into his eyes and said, "Thank-you… For being here. For everything."

"What's a family for?"

* * *

"Okay, now I'm the knight!" Peter declared, thrusting a wooden stick that he'd transformed into a makeshift sword into the air. "Alfred, you're my horse! Matthew is the fairy godmother!"

Alfred groaned and rubbed his still aching shoulders from the last time he'd allowed Peter to jump on his back. "Why do I havta be the horse?"

"Because you make a bad fairy godmother."

"Why does the knight need a fairy godmother anyway?"

"Really, what part of it don't you understand?"

"Everything!"

Thankfully, the ensuing quarrel was brought to a stop when Dad came outside to announce that dinner was ready. The three children raced away from their posts without hesitance, bumping into one another as they ran. Alfred was still at the back of the pack, it seemed. His leg had made a wonderful recovery, but it was painfully obvious that he didn't have the stamina he'd once had. He practiced day and night, but he couldn't move at full capacity.

Dad gave him an encouraging pat on the head as he reached the front door. His father didn't have to say anything for Alfred to know what he was trying to convey, and more often than he liked to admit, Alfred wondered if they shared the same mind. With just Dad around, Alfred began to notice the scary amount of similarities between them.

Their scowls were identical. When seated, they both crossed their ankles the same way. Their heads tilted off to the left when they were listening to someone speak, and they always scratched their necks when lying or withholding the truth.

This peculiarity was unnerving for Matthew, who tended to mirror Papa's mannerisms instead. He walked with the same kind of swooping motion in his step as Francis, and he would squint his eyes when smiling. Dad tried to ignore the little reminders of his husband, but they were hard to overlook.

"I hope you boys are hungry," Aunt Maretta chimed as they congregated around the dinner table. "I made more than enough food for everyone."

No one could be sad after a full stomach, and so, they wolfed down every crumb.

In the evenings, the boys would watch a movie in the living room as the adults made tea and played cards. Allistor was a rather skilled gambler, and he managed to win some of Dad's cigarettes during a round of poker. Dad didn't seem to mind the loss, he just enjoyed the tranquility of their game.

Alfred thought about what things could have been like if Dad had reunited with his brother sooner. Would their family have been different? Would they have spent their summers in the fields of Scotland, chasing each other until the sun disappeared from the sky?

He thought death was supposed to tear people apart, but it was bringing them together. Was that wrong?

On the sixth day of their impromptu get-together, Alfred shuffled into Dad's room after school and closed the door behind him, seeking a one-to-one chat. Dad had been tidying up his closet when he'd arrived, and he wore a wistful smile at the interruption.

"What's wrong, poppet?"

Alfred sat on the edge of the bed and shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing. Why does something have to be wrong for me to talk to you? Maybe I just wanted to say hi."

Dad shut the door to his closet and sat beside him. "I think I know you well enough to recognize when there's a problem. If you wanted to stop by as a pleasantry, you wouldn't have walked in so quietly."

He was right, of course, and Alfred chided himself for being predictable.

"Now, will you tell me what's bothering you?"

Alfred chewed on the inside of his cheek and pressed himself against Dad's side. "When are they leaving?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"When are _they_ leaving?" Alfred repeated, mumbling.

"You're talking about your aunt, uncle, and cousin, I presume?"

"Uh-huh."

"You don't want them here?"

"It's not that… They're nice, but I like it when it's just us."

Dad nodded in understanding and put a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "A few more days… That's all, okay?"

"Okay… Hey, Dad?"

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Why'd you invite them in the first place? I thought you didn't like your brother."

Dad let out a long breath and clicked his tongue. "Well, I suppose I thought it'd be good for us."

Alfred considered the words for a moment and frowned. "You were lonely, weren't you? You were scared that you'd have to do everything alone."

"A little," Dad admitted, surprised at being caught. "And though I'm not proud of it, I thought it might provide a distraction, which I realize was a mistake. I made the decision with poor intentions."

"It's okay. You tried to make things better," Alfred consoled him.

"I-I called Papa's parents and tried to explain what happened in broken French. It dawned upon me just how little they knew about him. They hadn't even known he was a police officer, and he hadn't spoken to them in upwards of fifteen years." Dad shook his head in despair. "He had broken off all ties with them for personal reasons, and it bothered me to think that I might live my entire life without ever contacting my brothers. As much as I disagreed with Allistor when we were younger, I still consider him to be family, and I didn't want our someday deaths to be the only thing to settle things between us. I can't even remember most of the reasons why I was upset with him anymore, and the ones I do remember were trivial at best."

Alfred blinked in awe. "I can't imagine not talking to Mattie for fifteen years."

"I was also setting a bad example," Dad added. "Sometimes you need to forgive the people that hurt you… It's the only way to heal."

"So, are we going to see Uncle Allistor again?"

"Maybe we can spend Christmas with him. Would you like that?"

"Yeah, but only if there's a lot of snow so I can go sledding. Oh, and Uncle Allistor told me that when you were kids—" Alfred paused to snicker and decided that perhaps it was better _not_ to tell Dad what he had heard.

"What nonsense has he been spreading now?"

"It's nothing."

" _Alfred_."

Already red in the face with repressed laughter, Alfred gave his father a cheeky smile and conceded. "He told me you guys used to dress up as pirates and battle with toy ships. The loser had to do whatever punishment the winner came up with, and one time Uncle Allistor won and tied you to a tree. Then, he made you lick Uncle Dylan's foot."

"Ah, yes. Now I remember why I hate him," Dad growled before standing up and marching into the hallway. "Allistor!"

Within moments, he was met with a response of "Stop yer barking! What is it now?"

"You're mortifying my children, that's what!"

"I think yer've already accomplished that."

Alfred knew from personal experience that it was better to stay out of sibling arguments, and so, he took the opportunity to leave, doubting Dad would even notice his disappearance.

* * *

True to Dad's word, the Kirklands left on the tenth day. They'd seen them off to the airport, and Dad exchanged heartfelt goodbyes with each of them. He griped about how Aunt Maretta had been far too kind to them and claimed that if Peter grew another inch within the year, he'd be the tallest boy in his school. When he finally got around to Allistor, he directed a curt nod at him and nearly left it at that. However, something possessed him to grab his brother by the lapels of his coat, and he wrapped him in a stiff hug.

His big brother instincts kicking in, Allistor swallowed Dad up in his arms and grinned. "I'll call ye tomorrow, all right?"

"All right," Dad agreed, feeling small.

"Take care of yerself. Treat the boys well, and if ye need something, let me know. Aye?"

Dad smiled wryly and said, "Aye."

They ended their embrace, and Allistor bent down to say goodbye to the twins, putting a hand on each of their heads. "Be good for yer father."

Dad was crying again. He'd been doing it a lot lately, and Alfred had lost count of the instances. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aunt Maretta rub Dad's shoulder soothingly.

When Allistor had sufficiently coddled the boys, he turned to Dad and clapped his back. "Remember what I said… If ye want me to stay…"

Dad shook his head and sucked in a breath. "No, no… There's no need."

"Guess that's it then."

"Guess so."

And as the Kirklands disappeared to catch their flight, Matthew could've sworn he'd heard someone say, " _Bien joué, mon amour_." Or, "well done, my love" in English. Maybe his ears had deceived him, as it could have come from the French couple standing not too far from them.

He couldn't be sure. And yet, his heart swelled with joy anyway.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** This is it! Thank you for sticking with me.

* * *

"Everything's looking pretty good, pal. How do you feel?"

"All better," Alfred told his doctor, fibbing a little to get a clean bill of health. He'd been due for another check-up, and though he'd insisted he didn't need to be seen, Dad made him go.

"Hmm. Well, I wouldn't say you're _all_ better just yet. Your dad says your knee still gets a little shaky and weak sometimes."

Alfred glared at his father and said, "Only sometimes."

"Any swelling?"

"No."

"Don't lie to the doctor, Alfred. He can't help you if you don't tell him the truth," Dad reprimanded him from his chair in the corner.

Why couldn't Dad play along every now and then? What a tattle-tale.

Alfred grumbled and answered the question again. "Only after I run."

"How often do you run?"

"Every afternoon."

The doctor prodded Alfred's knee a few more times and gave his verdict. "You can keep running, but I want you to give yourself a rest every other day. So, instead of running seven days a week, we're going to cut that down to four, deal?"

"No deal."

"Why not?"

"I gotta practice so that I can win my race next week."

"You won't win your race if your knee isn't well-rested," the doctor retorted, helping the boy off of the examination table. "You'll race better if slow down every now and then. You have to know when to hit the brakes."

Alfred huffed to signify his displeasure and retreated to the safety of Dad's awaiting arms. They wrapped around his torso from behind and squeezed him warmly. He hated all of these boring appointments, but Dad made them just a little more bearable, especially since he always treated Alfred to a snack afterward. Today, he was in the mood for a candy apple, and he knew the chocolate shop on the corner sold them. If he didn't cause too much of a fuss, he was sure he could convince Dad to buy him one.

Of course, before any of that could become a reality, Dad took the opportunity to chat with the doctor as Alfred waited impatiently for them to finish, rocking back and forth on his heels. Adults sure knew how to ramble—Dad and Papa used to talk for hours sometimes. It wasn't even about important stuff most of the time, just filler that carried them until their minds were numb.

Thankfully, the conversation didn't last too long, and Alfred was set free soon enough. He bounded down the sidewalk with Dad in tow, and yes, Dad said, they could stop by the chocolate shop for a few minutes.

He speed-walked the rest of the distance, and marched up to the counter, eyes shining with barely contained excitement. Dad handed him a ten-dollar bill and told him to order whatever he liked, as long as he chose just one treat. Then, Dad took a seat at one of the tables and rubbed his face, quite haggard and unlike his usual self.

This glum disposition was nothing new, and Alfred had grown used to it over the past weeks. Dad just didn't smile as much anymore. He looked at the world with a general sense of indifference, and the only time he seemed to show any vague interest in his surroundings was when he was around the boys.

Alfred's eyes darkened and he bit his lip as the store clerk greeted him.

"Hello, darling. What can I get for you today?"

"Umm… Can—may I get two candy apples, please?"

The woman smiled and bowed her head. "What a gentleman, you are. Yes, you may."

Alfred handed her the ten dollars, took back his change, and clasped a hand around the stick of each apple, chipper once more. The coins in his pocket jingled as he made his way over to Dad and slid into the seat across from him.

Snapping out of his train of thought, Arthur took one look at the boy's hands and frowned. "I said _one_ snack, Alfred."

"I know. This other one's for you!"

Conflicted between feeling frustrated and touched, Arthur settled on the latter. "Thank-you, lad, but I really don't—"

"Just try it!" Alfred persisted, shoving the candy apple across the table. "It's good!"

Not wanting to offend him, Arthur accepted the gift with a sigh, allowing himself a teeny-tiny smirk. He watched Alfred devour his own apple and ventured a bite of his own, pretending not to see the child's triumphant grin.

The toffee coating melted against Arthur's tongue, and he closed his eyes against the sweet taste, remembering the fluffy marshmallows by the campfire—how Francis had slammed the wretched things in his mouth.

"Honestly, _mon cher_. No wonder you are so bitter—it's from all of that damned tea you drink."

Arthur smiled at the memory and reached across the table to pet Alfred's head. "Thank-you, poppet."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes, very much."

"Told ya!"

It was the little things that could brighten Dad's mood, and Alfred promised himself he'd remember to do more nice things for him in the future. Seeing the light return to Dad's eyes like that—Alfred knew he'd finally done something good for his father.

He would make him happy again.

* * *

Matthew asked Time to stop. It didn't listen.

"Matthew, young man? If you're late to class, you're going to have to explain yourself to your teacher, and we wouldn't want that, would we?" Dad said from the foyer, waiting with Alfred. "Is everything all right?"

Matthew appeared at the top of the stairs and fought against the tears in his eyes. He was being silly. Silly, silly, silly. The world didn't care what he wanted. It had its own agenda.

Dad climbed up the steps and put a hand under Matthew's chin, lifting his head with gentle fingers. "What happened, love?"

"I can't go to school anymore."

"Well, we can't have that. Think about all of the wonderful things you won't be able to learn if you don't go to school."

"I can learn everything off the Internet anyway," Matthew argued, spinning around in the hopes of making a safe return to his room.

"Hold on. We need to talk about this."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Dad put a hand on his hip and drew his brows together. "Don't be unreasonable."

"Doesn't matter," Matthew mumbled, wincing when Dad pulled him back. "Nothing's the same anymore."

Dad seemed to realize where their conversation was going, and he shook his head. "I've told you before, Matthew… We need to be strong. Papa would be very unhappy if you stopped your studies. You know how important your education is."

"But he's not here to be unhappy, so who cares?" Matthew hissed, giving into the urge to cry when Dad tightened his grip around his arm and yanked him closer.

The man was firm, revealing only a flicker of hurt. "Don't say things like that. It's disrespectful. And he is here. He never left."

"I don't see him."

"That's because he can't be seen. He has to be felt," Dad whispered, putting a hand over Matthew's heart. "You're like him in so many ways, you just haven't noticed it."

Matthew wriggled out of Dad's hold and slunk back into the bedroom, slamming the door with a cracking sound that shook the ground. "You're wrong! He's just a body in the ground, and he's never coming back!"

Dad closed his eyes, took a breath, and swiveled around to look at Alfred apologetically. "You wouldn't mind taking the bus to school today, would you?"

Doing his part to quell the situation, Alfred gave a little smile. "It's okay, Dad. Mattie needs you."

"Thank-you for understanding. It's very mature of you. I'll pick you up later today."

"M'kay. Oh, and Dad?"

"Yes?"

"If Mrs. Crenshaw calls you, don't panic, okay?"

Dad immediately narrowed his eyes in disapproval. "Did you get in trouble with her again?"

"It's not my fault she didn't like my paper on the menstrual cycle."

Dad brought his hand to his forehead and tried to calm his rampage of emotions. Why did the boy have to add on to his list of problems? Nonetheless, he did find an inkling of humor in Alfred's mischief, and he wondered if that was precisely why the child had brought up the matter. "Please, spare me the details."

Not mature enough, it seemed. And yet, Dad hoped that wouldn't change anytime soon.

* * *

"You must know by now that your dad asked me to talk to you."

Matthew tossed his head back, sitting in the very passenger's seat that Papa used to occupy. The patrol car hadn't changed much since he'd last been in it. Maybe it was a tad worn and scuffed in places, but the radio still crackled the way it always did, and the scent of dank leather was inescapable.

"I know."

Dad and Raivis spoke often nowadays, and when the young Latvian wasn't stopping by for tea, he would babysit the boys or volunteer to take them out for the day. He was a welcome guest, but that didn't mean Matthew was willing to let the man become his personal therapist or counselor. Some things were personal, and he didn't see why Dad wanted him to talk about Papa with someone he'd known for barely a year.

"It's been hard on all of us at the station," Raivis murmured, reaching into his pocket to offer Matthew a piece of gum. He'd bent a few rules during his shift to talk to the child, and although he wasn't exactly allowed to have twelve year old boys in the patrol car, there wasn't a rule expressly stating that he _couldn't_. If anyone asked, he'd say the boy committed a misdemeanor. It was believable enough. "Your dad… He was really experienced, and maybe that's why he had a love/hate relationship with the job. He taught me a lot, especially how to treat people with respect, regardless of who they are. I think that's something that a lot of us officers forget to do sometimes when we get so caught up in the moment. It's easy to lose sight of yourself when people are dickwads. Whoops, I mean—"

Matthew smirked. "It's okay."

"You didn't hear that word from me. You picked it up at school, remember that. I can't have Arthur on my case again about—"

"I won't tell."

"Good, because Alfred just loves putting me in hot water."

"Alfred is bad at keeping secrets."

"Yeah, and I learned that a little too late," Raivis said with a laugh. "Look, I'm not gonna sit here and lecture you about how life is great and things always get better because it's not true. Life sucks, a lot. Bad things happen to people all of the time—people who've never done anything wrong. I don't know why these horrible things happen, but they do. We don't have any control over it. What I do know is that you have an amazing brother and father who will always be there for you, and you should be there for them too. They're going through the same thing you are, and they want to help."

Matthew snuggled further into the warmth of his jacket and said, "It's hard to talk to them. Papa understood me."

"And now they want to understand you too, so let them."

"It's not that easy."

Raivis brought the patrol car to a full circle around the neighborhood and stopped by the Kirkland-Bonnefoy house with a devious grin on his face. "Sure it is. I'll tell you what to do. You walk through that front door, grab them both in a bear hug, and tell them you love them. You'll feel a lot better."

"I-I don't know…"

"Trust me on this, scout's honor."

There was a heavy moment of deliberation, and then Matthew ambled out of the car, one arm tucked under the security of the other. The journey to the door was treacherous with fluctuating emotions, and Matthew felt much like the dried-up leaves littering the lawn—papery and useless.

He knocked.

Surprisingly, Alfred opened the door before Dad could get the chance. He was assaulting a bag of potato chips, and without thinking twice, he swung the plastic bag in Matthew's direction. "Mrgh? Want some?"

Matthew stepped forward and trapped his brother in a hug, just as Raivis had suggested. Stunned, Alfred dropped his arms to his sides and gave an awkward cough.

"Err… Are you feeling okay?"

"I love you, dummy."

Deciding not to question Matthew's motives, Alfred pulled his twin closer and mussed up his hair. An affectionate Matthew was a fun Matthew. "Aww! Love ya too, Mattie! What did Dad put in your cereal?"

"Shh! Don't ruin it."

When Matthew deemed Alfred sufficiently hugged, he released him and moved on to his father, who was looking at some letters from the mail.

"Dad?"

The man snapped his head up and pulled off his reading glasses. "Oh, Matthew. You're back so soon? Is everything all right?"

"I'm okay… I just wanted to say that I love you."

Dad took more time to recover than Alfred had, but when he'd reached his senses, he hugged him back with three times as much strength, even going as far to lift the boy a few inches off the ground.

"I love you too, sweet boy… I love you too."

When Matthew glanced at the living room window, he could see Raivis smiling a victorious smile.

Perhaps he could be trusted.

* * *

"Mr. K! Oh, my God. Like, you have no idea how much we've missed you."

Arthur furrowed his brows at the scattering of seniors that were crowding around his desk. They were all part of his junior class last term, and he couldn't believe how much they'd grown over the summer. Last time he'd seen Feliks, the boy was nothing more than skin-and-bones. Now, his cheeks were plump and he'd gained some muscle on his stalky limbs.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Arthur smiled at them, a little saddened by the fact that his lazy miscreants were becoming adults. They were wonderful kids at heart, and he had a soft spot for them. He always remembered the classes that wreaked hellfire better than the others.

Mathias perched himself on the edge of Arthur's desk and beamed at him, practically glowing. "We wanted to see how you were doing! How's the class this year? Not as cool as us, huh? We were your favorites."

"Hardly. You were remarkably average."

Feliks put a hand over his heart and pouted. "Ouch, that hurts, Mr. K. Our new English teacher is a total killjoy. She doesn't do free-writes with us, and we barely read anything anymore. She gets off-topic for an hour, and then the bell rings, which is okay, I guess, but we aren't learning anything."

"Well, that's simply unforgivable. There's only room for one killjoy in the English department, and that's me," Arthur joked as he finished making corrections on someone's essay.

"Right? That's what I was telling Natalya earlier!" Mathias agreed, taking a good look at his old classroom. "Man, I've gotta start working on my personal narrative for college apps, and I have no clue what I'm doing."

Arthur hummed to himself in thought, never raising his eyes from the pile of essays. "I assume this teacher of yours is Ms. Burke, and rumor has it that she'll be out for part of next week due to jury duty."

His former class broke out into excited cheers.

"Really?"

"Really," Arthur affirmed quite casually. "And it looks like someone will have to substitute for her fifth period class. I happen to be free during that time and was offered—"

"YES!"

Mathias and Feliks hugged each other and seemed ready to cry tears of joy.

Arthur bit back a chuckle and pursed his lips. He hadn't known they'd missed him _that_ much. "On Monday, we'll get straight to work on those college essays."

"There's still hope," Mathias cried out, still clutching Feliks. "We're going to college. You hear that, Mom? I'm not a failure!"

Arthur cleared his throat, breaking up the love-circle. "I want your first draft on my desk by Tuesday, Mr. Køhler."

"Aww, can we push that to Wednesday? There's a football game on—"

"No."

"Okay, okay… Yeah, my future's more important, huh? I know."

Despite being happy to see his previous lectures had some effect on the boy, Arthur decided that it was time to kick-out the crew. "We all have plenty of things to get done, and as much as I'm enjoying this reunion, there isn't any more time to waste. Hit the books, my ruffians, and behave yourselves. You don't want to make me look bad, do you?"

It was cruel. He'd spent so much time getting to know his disobedient group of teens, and now they were moving on without him.

Of course, such was the life of a teacher—students would come and go, and he had to stand back and watch them leave.

But it'd be okay. He was sure of it.

* * *

 _Ready, Set, GO!_

Alfred swore the track was set ablaze behind him as he ran. He catapulted himself forward, getting off to a fantastic start. Only one boy remained ahead of him, and Alfred was already on his heels, desperate to overtake him. The other boy was older, taller, and obviously stronger, but Alfred didn't let that discourage him. He'd challenged competitors that were far out of his league before, and now wasn't the time to feel insecure.

He tried to focus on everything he'd been teaching himself.

 _Steady breaths, save your energy for the end…_

They were about to reach the turn, and Alfred could see a dip in the track. If he kept up his speed, he could twist an ankle or lose traction with the ground, but if he slowed down too much, the boy ahead of him would be able to shake him off his tail.

He had to make a choice quickly. His father's voice echoed in his mind, and then, he had his answer.

 _Slow and steady wins the race, lad_.

He didn't suffer through a grueling year of physical therapy just to end up getting injured again. He carefully made the turn, wondering if his decision had cost him the race.

Without paying attention to those behind him, he picked up the pace and sprinted toward the finish line. Maybe he'd still get a decent result.

The bleachers rose up and roared at him as his momentum carried him the rest of the way. His hands swung to a halt at his sides, and he walked over to the water station by the bleachers to cool down, proud to have finished without embarrassing himself.

But before he could take a sip of his water, two pairs of arms were throwing him into the air with glee.

Terrified, Alfred shrieked as Raivis and Dad tossed him around like a beach ball.

"Hey! Stop!"

"Congrats, Al!" Matthew shouted from below, taking photos with his phone.

Raivis rubbed his head roughly and planted him between his shoulder and Dad's. "You won!"

"I w-what?"

"We're going out to celebrate," Dad told him with a kiss to his cheek. "I'm so proud of you."

Alfred pivoted his head toward the bleachers, where everyone was still staring at him and clapping. Dad had draped a medal around his neck. Was he dreaming? "I won? I WON!"

He looked past the sea of faces and toward the setting sun, smiling from ear-to-ear as sweat rolled down his temple. "I won…"

As Dad and Raivis struck up a conversation, he let his attention wander back to Matthew, who was transfixed by something beyond the wire fence encompassing the track.

"Matt?"

He followed his brother's eyes and saw the faint figure of a man in the distance. His hair was strikingly blond, but it was hard to make out the details of his face. He stood there for a few seconds, and Alfred squinted, unable to believe what he was seeing.

"Matt. Did you just see—?"

Matthew turned to him and shook his head. "It was probably nothing."

"Yeah… You're right. We've been out in the sun too long."

And sure enough, when Alfred brought his eyes back to the spot outside the fence, the man was gone.

"What would our gold medalist like for dinner?" Dad asked him a moment later, nose buried fondly in his hair.

Just a trick of the light, then…

"A cheeseburger!"

Dad laughed and nodded in approval. "Okay, a cheeseburger it is. Remember to leave room for dessert."

"I will!"

"You'd better share your fries with me this time," Matthew griped, trailing behind.

Alfred stuck out his tongue at his twin, still being carried by Raivis and Dad. Sharing was for plebs, not champions. "Hands off, buck-o!"

"Be nice," Dad warned.

"He's my brother. I can't be nice to him."

"Well then, I guess you won't be having any dessert after all."

Matthew sniggered and this time he was the one to stick out his tongue, but Dad couldn't see him because his back was turned.

"What I meant to say," Alfred clarified, pasting an angelic smile on his face, "was 'my dearest brother, I would be honored to share my fries with you.'"

"Why, thank you! _Je t'aime_ , Alfred."

Dad switched his gaze between them both, crinkled his face, and said with a toothy grin, " _Je t'aime, mon fils_."

With the sun fading fast, they walked to the car.

And so, it was goodbye.


End file.
